November Rain by Cardinal Robbins
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU In this 180 page novella, John Munch rescues an FBI Special Agent from the World Trade Center on September Eleventh. This is rated M because of adult situations, extreme danger, sex, violence, gunplay and more.


**November Rain**

By Cardinal Robbins

(For Virginia Reiter & Sylvia Miller, with love and gratitude. They always knew I would…and could. For Bear, too, who doesn't understand my _SVU_ kick, but tolerates it without complaint.)

Important Disclaimer 

Much as I'd love to be a writer on SVU, I'm not. All _Law & Order: Special Victims Unit_ characters are the property of Dick Wolf Productions and NBC/Universal. Characters not recognizable as part of the _SVU_ domain are property of and © 2006 Cardinal Robbins and may _not_ be used without the written permission of the author. Similarities between my characters/situations and any that may have appeared on any of the _Law & Order_ franchises or in other fanfic authors' stories are entirely coincidental. References made to previous stories and situations involving the _SVU_ characters are included for the sake of some small bit of continuity/canon. I can get to Richard Belzer through 6 degrees of separation, so I hope I've done his characterization of Detective John Munch proud.

For the record, the idea of this tale came to me _long_ before the many films, documentaries, opinion pieces and other Twin Towers' related shows came about. Yes, I have PTSD and the SoCal–based fly-bys were eerie and disturbing. To live near an airport yet not hear commercial planes is to know fear. My 'Stranahan' supported me emotionally during those achingly difficult initial days. My sister and I have friends in NYC who saw both Towers fall; to their friends and the other souls who lost their lives, I send my condolences and prayers.

_**Before you read this, be very aware this novella contains strong language, adult situations, explicit sexual content and violent gunplay. If you aren't offended by such content, read on and enjoy.**_

Prologue: Gone 

Carolyn's phone rang and she snapped it up on the third ring, before the answering machine could beat her to it, sure it was mom calling with the day's itinerary. Instead, she was surprised by the voice of Danny Stranahan, a close family friend. "Turn on the TV – **_now_**!" he said urgently and abruptly hung up.

She ran into the den and switched on the set, then watched in horror at what she saw: a jet could be seen turning, turning, settling into a pattern and flying straight into the first of two of the World Trade Center Towers. Her mind went numb. _Sarah. Oh, dear God, my sister's in there… _She couldn't tear her eyes away from the screen as another plane came into the side of the second Trade Center Tower and both of them started to crumble, as if they were sandcastles on the beach. _"Oh, God, no….not like this! **No!**_

Carolyn screamed to her husband, crying hysterically as she ran to the bedroom. **_"Peter! Peter – she's gone! Sarah's gone – the Towers, a plane went into the Towers and then a second plane and they're…just…gone. They're…both…just…gone. And so is she."_** He came out and saw the carnage replayed on the television and stood there, staring.

She picked up his cell phone and called Sarah's number, but there was no response. She tried to calm herself with the knowledge all circuits, landline and cell, would be overwhelmed, but she also knew that Sarah met with the rest of her team at that time each morning. Special Agents for the Federal Bureau of Investigations wouldn't begin their fieldwork until later in the day, and she knew her sister was in the offices in the first Tower.

They held each other as the disaster replayed again and again on every channel. Each time she saw it, Carolyn started to cry anew. Los Angeles International airport was shut down immediately, as was Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena airport, all flights had been grounded and New York – as had been the Nation – ground to a halt.

Worse yet, Carolyn didn't just know her sister was dead…she was sure she could _feel_ it.

Chapter One: Concrete & Steel 

She was in a space, both literally and figuratively, that was inescapable. Moments before entrapment in a twisted metal and concrete coffin of three by three and a half feet, she had been getting coffee and heading quickly back to her desk for a sheath of notes. It was on the 14th floor of what was at that time the World Trade Center, and she had heard commotion break out loudly among her fellow FBI agents and their support staff. She had enough time to look up and saw what looked like the shadow of a 757 heading straight into the windows above them all and then…darkness.

She awoke to screams of pain and panic, the acrid stench of burning bodies, yells of random names – some she recognized, some she didn't – but above all the dripping darkness and reek of unburned jet fuel, mixed with conducted heat of burning fuel and fixtures. _Smoke. Oh, shit…_ Her first thought was she'd die from inhaling cyanide, generated by the burning fixtures – especially the seats in the jet. Her hell was further complicated by the metal-reinforced concrete prison that held her from escape.

Suddenly, the building groaned, shuddered, lurched and she could feel herself falling fast, tumbled against her prison into unconsciousness again, the rough building materials ripping what clothing the blast hadn't taken, scraping her skin. On a subconscious level, she felt a piece of 'rebar' -- the metal that held the concrete together -- puncture straight through her calf, so quickly she didn't have time to curse. Fortunately missing the bones and nerves in her left leg, it had gone through neatly. If it had been a bullet, she would have considered it a "through and through," but it kept her from much movement unlike most of the wounds she'd sustained throughout her law enforcement career.

Her head throbbed as she came to, her hair soaked in blood, which dripped from time to time into her eyes. Her glasses were still on, but one lens had shattered in place. She tried to adjust to the darkness as both lenses lightened, wondering how far she had fallen and where her coworkers and friends were, or more succinctly, if any of them had survived. Even then, she wasn't entirely convinced she was alive. Her hand reached out to get a scope of the enclosure's parameters; she wanted to get free to give aid, at least as soon as she could get the rebar to relinquish its grip on her leg.

Above her, a 4 inch gap greedily gulped in sunlight, muted by the dark smoke and dust that poured in on top of her. She grabbed the rest of a ripped sleeve and pulled hard, satisfied as it came free. She used it as a mask to help guard against anything that might be in the air, be it from biological warfare or simply demolition dust. Who knew what had been in the building that had stood so strong for so many years? The larger question loomed -- why had the plane hit and what was it carrying besides several hundred precious souls and a full load of fuel?

She caught herself almost panting. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Her Emergency Medical Technician training took her mind off of the claustrophobia that ate at her mind so voraciously. _Remember Quantico,_ she reminded herself, _and everything you learned there._ She could breathe, more or less, despite coughing almost violently at times; getting oxygen to her brain was priority one. _Think of all those yoga classes and the breathing control techniques. You can do this. _Her airway was still relatively clear and she was concentrating on controlling her breathing to alleviate the pain and panic threatening to rob her of logic.

She ripped another piece of clothing and held it to her most serious head wound. It was deeper than she thought and head wounds always bled so much. The possibility of a concussion and its ability to fog her brain was what had given her the false bravado to try and escape in order to help. She ripped another piece of cloth to have at the ready, then tried to free her leg from the rebar. A fricative escaped her lips and she sighed, resigned that this time she wouldn't be the rescuer, but would hopefully be rescued.

She debated trying to scream, but the concrete was so thick. Who would hear her? _This isn't exactly the way I planned to go out_, she considered grimly, _but if it is, I'll see my friends on the other side._

Chapter Two: The Bureau 

"Is anyone here?" she heard a male voice yell. "If you can hear me, make some noise! It was almost impossible to be heard above the din; he could hardly hear his own voice coupled with the cacophony of police and fire department radios, rescuers trying to move rubble, the constant rain of dust and God knew what else, and an uncoordinated ballet of disaster relief starting to define its choreography.

"If you can – yell, sing, scream, anything!" He held the drywall mask tighter to his face, despite his darkened glasses making a good fit impossible. Munch stepped carefully closer into the rubble. He heard what sounded like rebar smashing against concrete and grew uncharacteristically hopeful. "Keep at it! I hear you – help is on the way!"

He gestured to his partner. "Find me something hard and heavy. I need to try and pound back, so they know we can hear them." He was handed a twisted, yet substantial, piece of debris and slammed it against the concrete. He heard a pounding in response.

"Over here! Get a jackhammer, a roto-hammer or a fireman's pry-bar and let's get going." He stooped down to see if there was a place to pry the concrete, if only to get more air into the small space. There was another 3 to 4-inch gap at the bottom. "Can you hear me? I'm Detective John Munch from NYPD and you're going to be okay. We just have to find a way to get you out." He heard a groan, but this time it represented life instead of impending death. "Can you hear me? What's your name?"

He listened closely, wishing the pry-bar was already in his hands. "I need to hear you – now!" He made an effort to sound more like a SWAT team leader than a borderline panicked man in an impossible situation. He could feel the critically damaged building swaying again, making his stomach lurch.

"I'm Special Agent Sarah Zelman, FBI. I'd come out to meet you, but there's more than just concrete in the way…I've got an 8-inch section of rebar straight through my left calf. You can't pull down this panel as a unit, you'll have to break it up from the top down – or this rebar's going to break my leg. What floor are we on?"

"We're in a pocket on the 6th floor. I'll let the paramedics know about not pulling on the concrete. Any other injuries, Sarah…uh…Agent Zelman?"

"Can't seem to get my head injury to stop bleeding completely, and I'm really sleepy. Went down with the Tower from our 14th floor offices, so it could be a concussion. I'm starting to go cold and clammy, too – adrenaline rush is wearing off and I think shock's starting to set in."

His heart stood still for a moment. _Shock_. It would take her off this rock before the concussion could, especially if she fell asleep. He couldn't even pass his coat to her through the small space. "Agent Zelman? I want you to keep talking to me, no matter what. Do you understand?" He sent his partner to find a paramedic team with rescue capabilities and tried to stretch out nearer the crack in the bottom of her cube. "Call me John. What do you do for the FBI? Can you tell me?" He'd seen too much death today to risk letting her go.

"Things are fading in and out, John," she said morosely. "Pass me your badge under the crack, because I need someone to take my Glock, belt and holster. I have to know you're actually NYPD." Her vision blurring, she could just make out his badge was the genuine article, gold to signify he was indeed a detective of some status in his department, held in his leather-gloved hand. "Okay, thanks."

"You went down with the Tower?" he asked, amazed that anyone could survive this hell all around him.

"Yeah… Did you?"

"No, we were close enough to get the debris cloud raining on our car, hard enough to crack the windshield in a few places, then got the word from our captain to report here and – "

"See if anyone lived," she finished. "Where's your partner?"

"Searching for more survivors." He looked at his badge and slipped it back on to his belt. The building was falling apart around them, piece by piece. Another gut-wrenching sway and the air was growing hotter. It had grown surreally quiet as the rescuers and the victims seemed to hold their collective breath. The world as they knew it, inside what was left of the first Tower, slowly regained its hum of furtive activity. "Zelman? Talk to me."

He heard her gasp a couple of times and groan in pain as she struggled take off her belt and ordnance. She took the gun from its holster, knew the safety was automatically on, then passed the gun through first and shoved the belt and holster through at last. She passed her fold-over badge to him and he looked it over. It was just like Dr. Huang's, the same gold. He idly wondered what her security clearance was.

"It's a Glock 35, she said, handing over her sidearm. Without it, she felt almost naked, even though it was more of a liability that an asset in her circumstances.

"Nice sidearm," Munch said, admiring it as he holstered it. "I have one of these as an auxiliary carry. It's a _little_ easier to conceal than the Glock 34 I carry every day."

"Cool. I just qualified with one of those, but found it a little heavier than I needed. Of course, with the streets getting rougher, I may upgrade to a 34. I keep a 22-caliber for aux carries, and a Walther PPK as a personal piece, but both are at my place today," she explained.

"Keep everything for me, would you, Munch? And these, too." She took off her earrings; small ovals of turquoise. "Give these to my sister if they can't get me out. I'm an organ donor and want my remains cremated, if things turn hopeless."

He wanted to reassure her, but choked on the words. Life and death; the turn of the cycle, but she was so unnervingly nonchalant about it. Covering her feelings, just as he had done a million times before and continued to do every day.

His hand passed underneath the crack, this time with no glove. She held it for a brief moment. He had long fingers and gorgeous hands; she caught herself wondering what he looked like, then she dropped her earrings into his palm. He took the earrings and pocketed them.

"Not to worry…everything will be safe with me, Agent Zelman. And they will get you out, you can count on it." He slipped his hand back underneath and she held it again, allowing herself the comfort of his grasp. "Everything will be in the captain's safe at the 16th precinct. It'll be waiting for you." He felt her squeeze his hand. She was in so much agony and his touch was so calming. He gently squeezed back, then she let go of it and pushed it back. "I'll be at the 16th waiting for you, too," he said.

_I'd love to see your carry card,_ she thought. _Bet you're their house heartbreaker._ "Don't put your hand underneath again, John…just in case the building shifts. I wouldn't want you to get your fingers crushed at my expense." She shivered; initially she thought the trembling was nerves or the rush of adrenaline, but now she was actually shivering. "Jesus, when did it get so cold in here?"

_It's not cold in here,_ he thought_…it's oddly warm. The fires are out of control and moving downward and upward simultaneously. He could tell by the frantic chatter on his police radio. "_Agent Zelman, tell me about your job with the FBI." _You need to keep talking, and I'm not leaving until I know you're safe. Cassidy can look for other survivors while I keep you going._

"You want to know what I do for the Bureau?" she asked him. I'm a profiler," she replied weakly, "but not _quite_ as much a psychological profiler although that's a major part of my job, rather a weapons forensics profiler. I can tell you what the bad guys are likely to torture or kill you with, and can still give you some pretty deep insight into their personality and how they'll go about killing you."

It was getting so hard to stay awake. She was forcing herself to talk when sleep was calling to her like a siren's song. "George Huang is our best psych profiler. He taught me everything I know for the psych portion of my job, since I didn't exactly have time for a university degree."

"I know Dr. Huang. He's a brilliant man at what he does."

"Agreed. He's been a great mentor. Glad he wasn't in the buildings today," she said gratefully. "We were about to get ready for a meeting on a breaking case, something came in straight from the Prez and the C.I.A. – it was an emergency meeting. We called Dr. Huang, but he was stuck tight in a traffic snarl. Guess it wasn't his time to go," she said wryly. "Then I saw a plane's shadow and all hell broke loose." She sighed, not entirely convinced she'd be freed, but grateful for the company. "Call me Sarah; after all, we're on the same team at the moment. You have a very calming voice, John."

"Yeah, that's what all of my ex-wives have said."

"All? You must be a Leo," she teased. "Leo men tend to fall in love with every woman they meet."

"Hey! I resemble that remark!" he shot back.

"Just don't fall in love with me or you'll be disappointed."

"Why?" he asked. "If you're married, I'm already beyond 'disappointed' and into despondent," he joked.

"Because I'm a Sagittarius – the archer who'll shoot you in the rear when you least expect it, then gallop merrily away." She chuckled loud enough for him to hear. "Humor's good…it may keep my mind off this bar through my leg. I hope they haven't run out of morphine yet."

"Well, you won't have to worry about flunking an agency drug test. I think your supervisor will understand." _And I noticed how adroitly you side-stepped my fishing expedition about marriage, _he thought sarcastically. _But at least you haven't asked me to call your husband…yet. _"Do I know your supervisor?" he asked, changing the topic.

"He usually didn't take field assignments," she explained. Zelman added in an almost mechanical tone of voice. "I'd introduce you sometime, but that depends upon whether or not he's alive. I might see him before you do." He had been standing next to her when the world caved in.

Her supervisor had shoved her hard under her desk. It was as if it had all happened in slow motion: Steve looked up, looked over, she felt confused for an instant and then he grabbed her physically and shoved her so hard under her desk she gasped in pain and covered her head. She'd yelled his name and felt as if her eardrums were going to blow out. _The building,_ she vaguely remembered thinking. _Pressurized…a bomb?_

She didn't immediately understand why he'd been so rough, until the floor was moving in what felt like a thousand different directions. When she looked behind her, he was gone and the offices looked like an atomic bomb had detonated in the middle of the cubicles. Glass had rained down everywhere, bodies and body parts were scattered, and then she briefly recalled falling into open space until she hit concrete. She was cut, scraped and bruised almost everywhere, but that wasn't the worst of it. She was _trapped_.

Chapter Three: Faith 

"They're bringing people out alive, Sarah. Keep the faith."

"Faith is all we have, John. At least God sent me another Jew to pass the time with. You can always start by telling me all about your ex-wives."

Munch was encouraged by the sarcasm, it meant she was still with him. "Stay awake for me? Please?" Her voice was oddly comforting to him, but it was fading in and out; he wondered if she looked like his vision of her.

"No guarantees. Losing blood and I can feel my gut starting to ache. I'm not even looking at my leg again until I see some paramedics. Rusty rebar completely through it, and here I thought I'd get tetanus from stepping on a nail." She coughed again, wishing she could stop. It hurt to breathe, it hurt worse to wheeze. She couldn't get enough air, no matter how hard she tried. This time, she got more than she bargained for: blood.

"Great…coughing up blood now. That's a new wrinkle in today's mess. She had a metallic taste in her mouth and hoped desperately she wouldn't wretch. "John…how old are you?" Her stomach lurched.

"Why?"

"I don't know…you wanted me to talk. I'm talking." Her accent definitely wasn't East Coast; he idly wondered if that was from all the FBI-required travel.

"Late fifties," he admitted. "But the ladies can't resist me," he added, wishing it was true. "You?"

"Late forties," she said fearlessly. She couldn't understand why women were so paranoid about age; she certainly wasn't. "Last time I was at Temple, the rabbi said that my hair was a…distraction. It was the last time I went to shul. I should have made more time for Temple, but maybe God will give me a pass."

"I think the good rabbi was talking in code for 'you look younger,' or maybe he was right. What color is your hair?"

"Red with blonde, from the bottle. Otherwise, it's salt and pepper – more gray than black. It was a Conservative shul, silly me to walk in without my hair covered," she explained. "I wish I gone to the Orthodox temple down the block. They were nice people."

_Were. She's already been talking in the past tense, off and on, _he thought. _This is getting critical. Subconsciously, she's giving up._

"My hair is dark, with just enough gray to remind me I'm no spring chicken," he volunteered. "But, like you, we've both been battling the gray from the early days, I'd bet."

"That we have. Sometimes, I wonder why we went gray so soon. Must be because we're cops," she retorted. She chuckled softly and he was buoyed by it. "Tell me more about yourself, John… You're an interesting fellow. I'm intrigued."

_Keep her chatting, Munch, whatever you do._ "I was raised Orthodox – typical Russian Jewish household," he said, with the appropriate amount of latent religious guilt. _'Typical' except for my father's suicide,_ he thought bitterly. "Sarah, you're German?"

"And Irish. What a combination, huh? So was the rabbi, last time I went to shul."

"Bet you're pretty." _God, what I wouldn't give to see her_, he thought. He considered looking at her 'flash card' – her FBI I.D., in the folder with her badge – but knew it wouldn't compare to the real person he was getting to know.

"Flatterer," she chided. "You'll dump me as soon as the kids in the helmets start to arrive."

"No, I won't," he asserted. "I promise."

"Bet you're handsome," she chided. "And I won't even get to see you. That sucks."

'_That sucks.' Sounds like Olivia. _Why won't you get to see me? he asked.

"Because I want you to leave me now, before the remains of this building go south. Just…leave," she said simply. "I'll be okay; the firefighters will find me. Find a can of spray paint and mark 'VIC NEEDS RESCUE' right above your head, and keep going with your assignment. They'll find me, John. You're spending too much time with me, when you need to be doing your job," she said, still very much a Special Agent. "Now, please, just go."

"No! That's not the deal."

"We didn't make a deal – and I don't want you dead. You've got my gun and everything else that matters to me, so take them back to the one-six and call it a day. While you still can. I don't want your untimely demise ringing in my head with all the rest of the people I no longer know."

"You'd rather see me pay alimony? Thanks a lot for nothing."

"Humor won't work this time," she replied. "Please…please go," she said, her voice catching. "John – don't make me beg. This building's going down to ground zero, I can feel it. Let me go with it and take along what dignity I have left." He could hear the despondency in her voice and he ached for her, for what she must be feeling.

_They were arguing,_ he thought incredulously. _In this hellhole, they were actually bargaining for who was going to walk out alive. _ "I'm not leaving," he asserted. "I'm staying here because I want to, not because I have to. I promise."

He wanted to slip his hand under that crack one more time, to prove he meant what he said. He could tell by her sudden desire to be alone that she'd given up on more than one level. She was ready to die and didn't want him to see her go out. She needed to feel human contact again, he knew, but instead she was pulling back as fast and as far as her concrete cube would allow.

"Don't leave me, Sarah," he asserted. "Stay in the moment with me. They'll have a rescue team on this floor soon. You have to trust me on that." He wanted to take her hand again; beneath the FBI toughness was a flesh and blood woman facing her own mortality…again. His brother Bernie the undertaker, not withstanding, John Munch had _death_ in common with someone else – Special Agent Zelman. They saw it every day, they faced off with it, taunted it, felt it flow through their veins, had it follow them into their dreams each night, dared it to take them with each perp collared, each bullet dodged.

The urge to take her hand was almost overwhelming. Discretion was the better part of valor, however, as what was left of the building continued to rock in the most disturbing ways. He longed for Dramamine as the building suddenly shook again, violently. "Sarah? Stay calm; it's probably just part of the support structure settling to take the strain."

"John, any idea when someone with a concrete saw _will_ be on this floor? It's starting to rain in here, from the firefighters working above us. This water is freezing. I just want to lie down and sleep." She sounded so exhausted. "To hell with all this… There's not even enough room or a good way to stretch out."

"Hey! I said no sleeping!" he yelled. "Zelman, stay with me." He felt panic rising in his throat and steadied himself with a deep breath. "I mean it. Don't leave me."

"I can't fight anymore, John. Just let me shut my eyes for ten minutes…that's all. I'd even settle for five minutes." Her head and neck ached so much, tears welled in her eyes, as her gut ached relentlessly. "Five minutes," she repeated, bargaining with him. "Like I said, that's all."

_That's exactly how it will be,_ he feared, _'that's all.'_ "No! Absolutely not!" He slammed a leather-gloved hand on the concrete and hoped she heard him. "Dammit! Stay awake and stay with me or – "

"Or you'll what?" she dared him to answer. She tried to lean her head against the concrete behind her and let out a sharp yelp of pain. _Probably did something to my neck, too,_ she thought sourly.

"I'll marry another trophy wife, get divorced yet again and be miserable forever. Or maybe I'll run off and join the French Foreign Legion," He hoped humor would work now, as it had more or less throughout their time together.

"Okay…" she sighed, her eyes closing. She forced her eyes open, cursed her blurry vision and wanted nothing more than to be safe, dry and warm in his arms. At this point he could be Quasimodo and still be a prince. "You win. Keep talking."

A team crawled around the corner with power tools, high-beam flashlights and a pry-bar. "We've got one!" a firefighter yelled exuberantly into his radio. "Pocket on Floor Six – victim alive, in need of heavy rescue, found by NYPD."

"Your wish is my command fair maiden – some paramedics just showed up, and they brought friends and a concrete saw. Do one more thing for me?"

"Anything. Unless it's dancing." She was glad he couldn't see her doubled-over in another wave of pain and nausea.

He smiled grimly. "Have dinner with me once you get out of this mess."

"Deal. I could be ugly as a mud fence, you know, and now you're obligated."

"Like I should worry. You sound lovelier than any of my ex-wives, too."

"What division do you work for, John?"

"Don't let this color your opinion of me, Sarah, but I work for SVU." He could hear her starting to cough again and wished he hadn't said anything else, but she'd somehow gotten under his skin, bypassing his numbness at the mass destruction and keeping him in the moment as he had guarded her.

"Sex crimes? Oh, please, nothing phases me. We're on for dinner. Remember my last name is Zelman and --"

Before she could finish, he was carefully pulled out of the way by the rescue team and she could hear him, as if through a tunnel, explaining the extent of her injuries as she recognized them. He backed off as he and his partner listened to a paramedic talk her through the rescue, with no response, while another firefighter started breaking concrete from the top down. Sarah Zelman couldn't hear them; she was out cold, in every sense of the expression.

"Cassidy, I can't leave… She's not talking back to them. She's – "

"C'mon, John, you've done all you can here. We _have_ to keep moving." The SVU rookie had been a street cop long enough to know things could have gone sour over the last few moments. The last thing he wanted was for John to see he'd failed to keep his vic alive, especially if she'd gone out at the start of the rescue. In the past hours, they'd seen enough body bags and recovery incidents for a dozen lifetimes.

Keep moving they did, throughout the 6th and 7th floors, but Munch had to backtrack once more to where he'd found her. It was an eerily small space, blood soaked into the wet concrete chunks and tortured steel, mixed with the detritus of a paramedic rescue. _How much had she suffered?_ he wondered.

Chapter Four: Lost & Found 

They both did what they could until exhaustion drove them back to the house and into the crib. They saved a lot of people that day; both John and his partner lost count, but John Munch's mind drifted back to FBI Special Agent Sarah Zelman. He'd stored her sidearm, gun belt, holster and earrings in the captain's safe, accompanied by a hastily scrawled note that explained the contents.

As he surrendered to sleep, he could still hear her voice, so calm in the midst of chaos.

Despite the crippled city, he would find her again; he wanted to know she was alive. He could find her; he could trace the gun because the registration would include both her FBI division and her home address. He was afraid to admit to himself that he desperately wanted to hear her voice once more, and not just that…to be able to see her, to touch her once more, to know she was truly a survivor.

When the Towers went down, his defenses fell into an abyss with them. He wanted nothing more than something – someone – to connect with, but to admit that to his colleagues would be to admit weakness. John Munch was compassionate, empathetic, intellectual but never weak, yet he was human. Only if he discovered Zelman had survived, been spared somehow, would he feel there had been some purpose to his work over those endless hours. Only then would he feel tall and strong once more.

Munch awoke after six hours' sleep and looked to his partner, who was softly snoring. _Was Zelman out of surgery yet? Had she even survived the trip out of the debris?_ He got up quietly, went to the men's room, splashed water on his haggard face and entered the bullpen. He grimaced as he heard those ever-familiar words.

"Munch, my office. Now." Captain Cragen said somberly. "I saw your note. Everything's fine in my safe, no problem there." He closed the door behind John, motioned to the chair as he sat down himself. He pulled a vodka bottle and glass from behind his files in a bottom drawer. "Pour. You'll need it."

For probably what was one of a handful of times in his life, John Munch did what he was told. He took a long pull off the double-shot and looked at the Captain mournfully. "Remind me to buy you some better vodka," he quipped, watching Cragen's face carefully. _Not even a smile. This isn't good._ "Let me guess. Cassidy told you all about the FBI agent and she was dead on arrival." He felt his guts twist when he saw the look on Cragen's face. Sometimes the man was utterly unreadable.

"Yeah, well, before he hit the rack, Cassidy spilled his guts. Man, can that guy run his mouth. If only he worked and studied as much as he talks," he complained. "But there's good news, John. Dr. Huang knows Agent Zelman, since George is also FBI. I called and asked him to do a quick search for her."

Munch's mouth opened slightly, but he couldn't speak. He was still trying to process Cragen's profound act of kindness. "Captain, despite a city-wide call-out, you – " he was too stunned to continue.

"He found her at Mercy Hospital in the recovery room and made a positive I.D. – she's over there, due for I.C.U."

Munch swigged the last of the vodka, feeling it burn a path to his long-empty stomach. "How…how is she? I saw the bridge they had to traverse to get her out. We walked it with a few survivors. Cassidy almost lost his footing, then almost lost his breakfast."

"Zelman's in 'guarded condition' at the moment, but Huang said he talked to a couple of her doctors in between doing psychological triage there; she should eventually pull through. Huang said she's a hell of a fighter when she wants to be. They have history. It runs deep." He started to pour another shot, but stopped as Munch gestured he'd had enough. "Huang's almost in over his head over there, even he's going to need some 'couch time' with a colleague or two."

"Can I see her?" He wasn't expecting much, especially in light of current events and overtime.

"I can give you an hour – but you've got to get a decent meal into you as well, or I'm going to be pissed. I can't have my people falling out from hunger and exhaustion, especially during a terrorist attack."

"So this _was_ a terrorist attack," he blurted. "And everybody's busy giving me endless shit over conspiracy theories!" John almost levitated from the chair and bolted for the door. "I heard the rumors, but collapsed into a crib before I could confirm anything. Now I _have_ to talk with Zelman – she's a profiler and said something about working on a case. The President had called an emergency meeting and -- "

"And you will say _nothing_ about what you heard!" Cragen asserted. "I'm aware of the case, Munch, because the Chief has already called. He's all over my ass about it, just like he is with every other captain in every other precinct.

"It's going city-wide and probably nation-wide. _You_ need to be aware she's in no condition to talk and that if you do, this entire situation is a matter of national security. You could be found guilty of a felony by even mentioning certain things to her, got that? The press is going crazy; expect to be hassled wherever you go. They're desperate for anything and they're making things up as they go along. We cannot and _will not_ feed into the media frenzy, especially until we know what we're dealing with here."

"Understood." Benson had once gotten herself into hot water by leaking information from the Feds, and Munch was determined not to follow in her mistakes.

"We'll get Huang to pull some strings later on, if we need her in here to help us. They both work for the FBI, so it shouldn't be a problem."

Cragen stood, wishing he too could delve into the vodka bottle just…one…time. If there ever was a time, today was the day. He gave the half-empty bottle a longing look then put it and the glass away. It felt almost magnetic as he released his grip on it.

"Right now, Huang said, she needs to know who helped her hang on. Cassidy told me how patient you were with her, so I'm giving you a chance to see her. Grab something to eat and then spend a few minutes with her.

"She's in a medically-induced coma, a very light one to help her body heal, but I think she'll hear you on some level if you talk to her. But absolutely _nothing_ about the terrorist attacks, you got me?" He saw the look of gratitude on John's face and added, "It'll do you both some good."

"Huang said that, too, didn't he?" He cringed at the thought of being psychoanalyzed yet again, even on the most basic level. Damned if it wasn't always without his permission, somehow, too.

"Actually, yes he did. Now _go_. See her while I can spare you for a few," he ordered. "Before I change my mind and slap your sorry ass back on overtime on an empty stomach." Cragen looked at Munch with an expression the detective hadn't seen since Fly Florida flight 105 crashed nose first into the Everglades and the Captain got the call. His wife was dead. Her last flight as an attendant before retirement: No survivors.

Munch was into his dark gray trench coat and out the door, almost before Cragen could finish his sentence. "Thanks, Cap -- I owe you big time," he called out, almost slamming the door behind him.

If anyone knew Zelman and could positively identify her, it would be Dr. George Huang – who was well connected with almost all the Special Agents. The FBI required a certain amount of 'couch time' for everyone who moved up in the ranks, and most of them met with the good doctor at some point in their career.

Chapter Five: Mercy General 

John Munch hated 'hospital whiff,' the same smell of antiseptics and cleaners that every hospital used to cover the scent of blood. He punched the elevator button and hoped the flash of his badge would gain him entry into I.C.U, which was usually reserved for family and the closest of friends. He hadn't even thought to ask if there was anyone he should call for Sarah; for all he knew, she was married. Contemplating that took his mood down a few more notches as he stepped into the elevator.

I.C.U's waiting room was an exercise in quiet desperation; people sitting curled and staring into space, some pacing, some gently rocking back and forth, wondering if their loved ones were in surgery, in emergency or in C.C.U or I.C.U. He flashed his badge at the small window and a nurse's voice came over the intercom. "May I help you, sir?"

"Detective John Munch to see Special Agent Sarah Zelman. Dr. Huang sent me," he added, hoping that would open the locked door.

The buzzer quietly sounded and he walked in; a nurse escorted him to her bedside. "She's not long out of the recovery room. I can only give you five minutes."

"That's enough, thank you." He looked at Sarah's hands, one had an intravenous line and the other was scraped up so badly it was almost completely covered in dressings. There were too many tubes and wires to count. She was covered with a top sheet and _two_ blankets, one decidedly heavier than the other; the bed ever so slightly in the Trendelenberg position, but at least he could tell she wasn't in anti-shock trousers. "Will it be okay to carefully hold her hand? The other one looks too banged up."

"That IV's in to stay; I started it myself," the nurse replied softly. "Go ahead. I'll come and get you when your time is up. You can talk to her, too… Huang said you kept her going while she was trapped. That was extremely brave of you, detective."

"Part of the job," he said, suddenly embarrassed. "I just wanted to see her and make sure she'll recover." He was more than relieved when the nurse left them alone.

"Sarah, it's John. I'm here," he almost whispered. "You're going to be just fine. I'm going to leave my cell phone number at the nurses' station, in case you need anything or need me to call anyone."

He sat down beside the bed, and pulled off his gloves, pocketing them. He slipped his warm hand in her cold one, and hoped his grasp would warm it. He finally saw her for the first time. She was nothing like he'd envisioned, but in a good way. She had been carefully cleaned up, most probably in pre-op. Her reddish blonde hair had been cleansed of the blood, the scalp wounds closed. She wasn't petite, but she had an almost athletic build. Probably muscular, knowing she was a Bureau agent. He could tell she was about 5'6 or so…not quite as tall or stunning as Benson, but certainly beautiful in her own right. Her hair was regulation length, but cut in a most feminine way, highlighting her clear skin which looked untouched by anything artificial.

_I should have known she was a redhead_, he thought, drifting back to how serious things had been with Casey. Before it all tumbled down over the topic of children, like so many baby blocks…with a hidden fragility not unlike the two Towers.

He could tell Zelman wasn't into the beauty trap of his ex-wives, who'd each spent his hard-earned money on makeup and custom colored hair, long nails, expensive baubles, spa days and the latest fashions. Her nails were cut very short, all the better to wear gloves and shoot a weapon. She had the hands of someone who worked for a living.

Her leg was elevated and heavily wrapped, immobilized but fortunately not cast; antibiotics and Ringer's lactate flowed into her system, along with a pint of whole blood marked O Negative in a second IV in her opposite arm. It was probably the last pint of that blood type in all the boroughs, he thought. A soft cervical collar was around her neck. _Sprain? Fracture? Precautionary?_ He wondered.

She was almost covered in bruises or the telltale redness that was going to bruise at a later time. He was almost afraid to touch her, lest he cause her any more pain, but the nurse sounded sure he could hold her hand without doing any additional damage. Her hand felt slightly warmer in his grasp. An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth, but she seemed to be breathing with relative ease, for which he was grateful.

She gently clasped his hand, surprising him enough to startle. Lack of sleep was making him jumpy; he needed a hot cup of tea to calm him. Sarah's second round of morphine and other drugs were starting to wear off and she awakened just enough to realize someone was holding her hand. "John?" She fought to briefly open her eyes; they were brown, like his. _"Oh, dear God… Make the pain go away…"_ she moaned, no louder than a whisper.

"I'm here, Sarah…everything's going to be fine. Now sleep," he whispered into her ear.

"One thing."

"_Anything."_

"Thank you for keeping me alive," she slurred, the darkness taking her away from him once more.

_If she's married I'm partying with my gun tonight,_ he taunted himself.

"Time, detective," the nurse said as she came back into the room. "Sorry." She pushed a green button on the intravenous, releasing more morphine into Zelman's system. "I wish we could do more for her pain," she whispered.

"Me, too…" He stood, his hand still in hers. "At least I got to see her," he said softly. Hesitating, he took another long look at her, then allowed himself to kiss her gently on the cheek. "See you later," he said softly.

He reached into his suit coat pocket. "Look, I have no idea if she has family, a husband, a cat, a parakeet…anyone. But if she needs anything at all, or if her condition changes, will you call me? Day or night."

"Sure thing," she replied with a warm smile, taking his card.

"Thanks." He reluctantly let go of Sarah's hand and heard his stomach rumble. It was time to see what culinary horrors their cafeteria had, before Cragen chewed him a new backside.

"Oh, detective…"

"Yes?" He turned toward the nurse, noticing the sly grin on her face.

"Just so you know, she's single. Next of kin is a sister on the West Coast, secondary contact is a female friend in Indiana."

"Really? She'd mentioned a sister." He hoped no one had seen him raise his eyebrows.

"No husband or male contact listed, at least not through the Bureau."

As the I.C.U door closed behind him, for the first time since the World Trade Center catastrophe, John Munch allowed himself a surreptitious smile.

Chapter Six: Gain & Loss 

"I don't usually say this," Don Cragen began, "but I should say it a hell of a lot more often. I'm very proud of you people – _my_ people – and what everyone accomplished yesterday." He struggled to continue, lack of sleep and constant updates from the brass made his nerves raw. "The 16th had a rescue and recovery rate that was right up there with the best of the first responders. That's why I tolerate all the shit I do from up above – "

"You mean from God," John challenged, "or the brass?"

"Both," Don retorted, a wry smile on his face. "Of course, the brass thinks they're God. But don't let this message get lost, people: I could not be more proud of everyone here for what they did yesterday. 'Everyone' meaning foot patrol unies to you, my detectives – and _everybody_ in between."

"If you haven't had a chance to get in contact with your friends and family members, you're ordered to take the time and do it today" he ordered. "Do not let anyone shift in the wind over who of you is alive and who is not." He looked at the notes in his hand. "John Munch, call your mother in Miami. She called yesterday and wanted to know if her son was in the building. I told her you were fine, but she still needs to hear your voice."

"The typical Jewish boy – you never call, you never write," Elliot said, teasing Munch.

"Hey, we trade e-mail…a lot. I'll give her a call, Cap," he said, "right after I execute Elliot." He smiled wearily.

"Kill me and you have to finish all my paperwork," he shot back.

"I wouldn't do you the favor," Munch retaliated. "You get a reprieve from my expert marksmanship. Consider yourself fortunate beyond your means."

"Captain," Olivia asked, taking a deep breath, "did _we_ lose anyone?" The house went silent on their floor. No one had thought to ask, in all of yesterday's panic.

"Unfortunately, yes. We did," he said, slowly. "Two patrol officers were in the bank on the first floor. They went farther into the building before orders came down for an organized S&R pull-back and they didn't make it." He looked down at the floor, silently blaming himself that he couldn't save them – there hadn't been time for a warning before they were out of radio range. Less than sixty seconds had been the difference between a future wedding celebration and an imminent memorial service. "Funeral arrangements are pending and we will all go; just as soon as I know something, I'll relay the information. We're setting up a fund for their survivors; I'll have more info on that, soon, too."

Without thinking, Benson's hand rested on her badge and the black band across it. She didn't dare look over at Elliot, not with her eyes already welling over two blues who crossed over together. It would break her; the mere thought was enough to make her heart ache. She saw Stabler's shoulder muscles tense and new he was thinking the same thing.

"In other news, changes coming in our house, folks," Captain Cragen began anew, "and it's not at all a bad thing." He paced as Benson took a seat on the corner of Stabler's desk, Cassidy brought his head up from his computer screen and Munch stood with tea mug in hand.

"Here comes the crap storm," John groused. "If it's change, it can't be good."

"Increased head count is always a plus, detective, especially when it means you may have to work fewer hours and enjoy an even higher closure ratio." Cragen rarely took Munch's tone seriously; he knew his creatures of habit were _all_ skeptical of changes, especially his self-professed elder statesman.

"We're getting a new team member?" Olivia asked, buoyed by the thought of a social life. "Who? You usually pass around their jacket to let us see who's coming to the party." She glanced at Elliot, wondering if her knew who was coming in. If he did, his expression didn't tip his hand.

"Yeah," Stabler agreed, taking a long sip of coffee. "Whoever it is, I hope they can take it, that's all I have to say." He winked at Liv as he glanced down toward Cassidy. "No kid, I hope. I _hate_ babysitting, except for my own kids." _How John has the patience for it, I have no idea, _he thought_. SVU rookies. Man, what a waste of time they could be._

"Definitely no kid. He can take anything we throw at him, people. His name is Odafin Tutuola and he's worked narc for years."

"And homicide before that," Munch added. He and Tutuola had history.

"Exactly," Cragen continued. "We can use him, since he's an expert in drawing information off the streets, he's always up on his paperwork, he's never wrecked a company car, and he's pairing with Munch." Cragen saw the tall man wince. "What, John? It'll give Brian a rest from your conspiracy theories," he teased.

"But…Tutuola won't be hitting the streets again until his knee heals up and he's through rehab," the captain continued. "He went into the Towers when the second one came down, took some serious ligament damage during search and rescue; he can break in to our ways of accomplishing things while he heals up."

"Great. Should I carry him around on my back, so we can get him out there sooner?" Munch asked, bobbing his tea bag in the cooling water. "Or can we send him back for a bionic knee? You know, the government has that technology." He remembered reading that somewhere. "Think of the gas we'd save."

Elliot rolled his eyes and stifled a laugh. He saw Olivia put her hand over her mouth and cough discreetly to keep from giggling. "I think it's a good deal, Captain," Stabler volunteered. "Anything that ups our solve ratios and gives me more time with my kids, I won't quibble with. When do we get to see our new bullpen buddy?"

Cassidy, as the least experienced of the team, was unusually silent. He was too busy taking Stabler's 'babysitting' comment personally.

"I'm with Stabler," Benson agreed. "I haven't been on a date in months. A little lighter workload is fine by me." She could feel the heat of Stabler's stare drilling through her back like a laser. She looked at Cragen, her head turned to one side. "What did this cost you, Captain? Nothing comes without a catch, especially in our department."

"This officer – and one more to be added to head-count later – cost me serious string pulling. Think of it as pulling the strings of a full symphony, especially violin first chair. I wanted to add two detectives to head count because we're working short again, and I've noticed the crankiness ratio is starting to get out of hand."

"'Cranky'? Us?" Elliot said. "Certainly not. We all get our four hours' sleep each night, don't we everyone?" He was only half-joking and Cragen shot him a look.

"You can joke all you want, Stabler, but I'm serious and you should be, too," Don said, trying to make it sound like less of a warning than it was meant to be. "I originally asked for four badges, but with the budget cuts, you'd think I'd asked the Chief to give up his weekly shipment of Beluga caviar."

"Tell him osetra's better anyway," Munch quipped. He knew all about caviar.

Sometimes, Stabler wanted to clock him, because he new too much about too damned many things.

"Tell him yourself, why don't you?" Don dared him, occasionally afraid Munch would speak his mind when he saw the Chief. Cragen heard the collective whistles and gasps, shrugged his shoulders and added, "Look, folks, _I'm_ certainly never going to make chief, thanks to the glass ceiling punching me in the face. And we all know how much I'm absolutely _adored_ by Internal Affairs," he added pointedly. "So I traded in some favors to help us all."

"Why do I get the impression there's more to this than you're telling us?" Munch asked, his face creased with concern. "Benson? Stabler? You feel it too, don't you?"

Benson slipped easily off of Stabler's desk and headed for the coffee maker. She scrutinized Cragen as she walked past. "Might as well hit us with the bad news now, before those phones start ringing off the hook."

"You want it, okay, fine," he said, looking decidedly dyspeptic. "Every one of you is going to be scheduled for some 'couch time' with our esteemed Dr. Huang. Rescuers and survivors are already showing signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and no one on my team's going to flip out and eat their gun because of what they saw or did when the Towers came down."

He heard the squad room break out in a combined protest and raised his voice. "That's an order, it's from up above and it's _final_ – even I have to go, hell even the new guy goes, so you won't be alone in your misery." Lack of sleep was making him more argumentative than usual. "Keep in mind, I am in command here, in case anyone forgot who makes the decisions."

As if on cue, the door was opened by a pair of crutches crashing against a brass kick plate. Without turning around to face him, Cragen said, "Welcome home, Detective Tutuola…or should we call you 'Fin'?"

"'Fin' will be fine, sir," he said. They all turned to see a tall, strong, good-looking black man, neatly trimmed beard with his hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, on crutches with his left knee in a full-length brace. " Mornin', everyone. I'm the addition to your head-count."

He saw John Munch and groaned, "Oh not _you_. Damned if I'm gonna listen to your ranting conspiracy theories all day long and half the night and drink that battery acid you try to pass off as 'coffee.'" He tried hard to keep a straight face and failed miserably.

"How the hell are ya, John? It's been damned-near forever since I've seen your ugly mug." The two of them shook hands, and would have exchanged a hug if not for the crutches in the way.

"I'm obviously lot better off than you," he retorted, grinning. He pointed to the desk behind Stabler's. "You've got a desk right there. If you need any help moving in, let any of us know and we'll be happy to lend a hand. We were just about to take up a collection and get you a bionic knee."

"Better to take the money and buy a wheelchair for your boney ass," he shot back, laughing.

"Good to see you again, Fin," Munch said with sincerity.

"It's mutual. Now let's end this little love-fest and get down to it. You can start by introducing me to everyone."

Chapter Seven: Intensive Care 

John Munch wouldn't let anyone else drive, unless he'd taken his Dramamine. He expertly weaved his way in and out of heavy traffic, but when anyone else did it his stomach felt like he'd hit zero gravity. "Cassidy, you hungry? I'm buying."

"Then I'm starving. What do you have in mind? Please not TacoRama again, Munch. If we do that, I'll never leave the 'reading room' at the house."

"You've been in SVU for almost a year now, and your gut's still a rookie. Yet you wouldn't know truly sublime cuisine even if it bit you in the ass." He saw John was turning into the parking lot of Mercy Hospital, flashed his badge to the parking attendant and parked as close to the trauma entrance as he dared. "Their cafeteria has decent food, nothing at all like TacoRama. By the way," he added, "we weren't here."

"Right," Cassidy agreed. "I'll tell everyone we went to TacoRama."

Munch laughed wryly. "You, my friend, are finally starting to get the picture."

They finished lunch and Brian went to cruise the gift shop, in hopes he could find something that would catch Olivia's attention. He was still determined to find some way to break Elliot's hold on her, and the rhinestone earrings in the window might be just the ticket.

Meanwhile, John headed to I.C.U. to see Sarah again, in hopes she was able to talk. The nurse let him in, winked and walked out of the room. He sat down beside Zelman's bed. Her color was ever so slightly better but she was still pale. Bruises were starting to color and it hurt him to see them. A tray sat on a table in front of her, the lid still on it. A water glass with a curved straw was next to a small pitcher of water.

"John?" She slowly opened her eyes. "I'm glad it's kinda dark in here; my eyes ache so bad. That you?"

"Hey, beautiful…" To him, she truly was, even at her worst. "John Munch at your service. I wanted to drop by and see how you're doing."

Sarah, groggy from the morphine, tried to move but let out a gasp of pain instead.

"Easy, babe...take it easy," he said, taking her hand.

She forced her eyes open, blinking groggily. "I knew it was you," she said softly. "You wear the greatest cologne." She managed a smile and he saw none of her pearly whites were damaged in the collapse. She closed her eyes again; they ached too much for her to keep them open.

"And you have the nicest smile," he said. "What's with the untouched food tray? You need to get your strength back." He lifted the lid and saw she was on a soft diet of Jell-O, yogurt and ice cream. She'd had internal bleeding and now they were being extra careful, he surmised. At least they were letting her eat something, even if it was only the softest of foods.

"Had a tetanus shot today…thanks to the rebar incident. Running a fever and having my usual awful reaction. Pull up my sleeve and you'll see."

He saw the swelling and hot redness spreading far down her arm and grimaced. "Ouch. I'll get the nurse to bring in a cold pack."

"She's going to…no worries. Wish my fever would break."

He placed his hand on her forehead. "Nurse know about this?" His hand felt so cool and wonderful against her skin.

"Yeah… Tylenol, Advil, ice packs…nothing's been able to break it completely. They think the antibiotics will, eventually."

He popped the top on the yogurt, stirred it up and spooned up a bite. "Open, sweetheart, you need this."

Here eyes were still closed. "No, John, I'm really not –"

In went the yogurt. It felt so cool against her mouth and throat it surprised her.

"Not bad… Thanks."

"You're welcome." He slowly, patiently fed her over the next twenty minutes, knowing she would have rather not eaten than have a nurse feed her. Her pride would never betray her. "I have to head back to work soon, but is there anything you need, Sarah?"

"Just a few dozen more visits from the handsome Detective Munch," she said, a weary smile on her face. She opened her eyes slowly, wincing in the low light. "Thanks for lunch… Did you eat?" she asked, concerned.

"Yep. Pastrami on rye with chips, down in the cafeteria."

"Good…" She started to drift off to sleep. "I have to get out of here soon," she whispered. "I need to get back to work."

"For now, you need your rest," he asserted. He let go of her hand and stood, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll be back tonight. If you need me, have the nurse call. I'll make sure they have my home number, too."

"Will do." She sighed and fell asleep. He motioned to the nurse, who had the cold pack ready and waiting. "Got a second one for her forehead?"

"I'll bring one in, sure. She's pretty miserable with that fever."

"Feels like she's burning up…"

"It's still considered low-grade, but we're keeping an eye on it. It doesn't want to break too easily." She saw the lid was off the food tray and the containers had been opened. "You got her to eat? Congratulations," she said. "She's having a rough day, especially with the tetanus shot. I offered to feed her, but she wouldn't let me."

"I figured as much," John said, almost whispering. "She's so stubborn." He saw the almost empty nightstand. "Can she have flowers in here?"

"No, not in here – but we'll try and transfer her to a medical/surgical floor tomorrow, depending on how she shakes the reaction to the shot and how she's doing in general. Once she's on a med/surg floor, then she can have flowers."

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

He found Cassidy buying half the gift shop and sighed inwardly, knowing there was nothing in this world that Olivia wanted from that place, unless Elliot Stabler was for sale in the front window.

Cassidy's infatuation with Olivia was grating on him – and everyone else, especially Elliot – but Munch knew he wasn't in any position to throw stones. He was hooked deep on a new drug with the street name Sarah Zelman. It flowed in his veins and threatened to give him a dangerous high, more potent than any bust he'd ever made.

Chapter Eight: Another Fix 

It was early evening when Munch returned to Mercy, this time he was buoyed by what he saw. The nurse had raised the head of the bed, so Sarah could almost sit up. She was also a little more alert than she'd been since being admitted to I.C.U. Sarah poked at a half-empty dish of strawberry Jell-O. "Hey…" She smiled at the sight of him. "How was your day?"

"It's over now, that's the important thing," he said, exhausted. He sighed and sat down in the chair beside her bed, stretching out his long legs. "How're you feeling?"

"Much better. They took the drain out of my leg and closed the wound late this afternoon," she said happily. "I'm that much closer to dancing again. But three broken ribs are keeping me on morphine and this cervical collar makes it tough to get comfortable. At least I feel well enough to start bitching again," she said. "Sorry… Not fair for me to gripe; not under these circumstances or considering everything you've been through. How are _you_ doing, John?"

Dr. Huang was right; she was definitely a fighter. "Nothing a little more sleep can't cure. If it were me in that bed, they'd hear the kvetching all the way down the hall. They'd also take away the call-button, too. I've got the rep of being the house hypochondriac," he said, smiling. "They tease me about the number of times my anthrax has flared up." He saw her scrutinize him carefully for a moment. "It's a joke…never been exposed."

"Yet. Bet you're awfully tough, though."

"Get references from my ex-wives before you say that; none of them would do so much as feed me chicken soup when I had a cold," he retorted. "They clear you for a transfer to the medical/surgical floor tomorrow?" He was already trying to decide what flowers he would buy her.

"That's the rumor." She scrutinized him carefully. "How'd you know?"

"Oh, I have my sources," he teased. "After all, I am a detective for New York's Finest."

"You asked a nurse," she said, smiling as his face reddened. "You are _so_ busted."

She grew thoughtful for a moment and asked, "Were you serious about my asking you if I needed anything?"

"Serious as a political assassination. What's up?"

"I…uh…need someone to go to my place and bring me some clothes. Mine were basically shredded in the accident. I'm still mortified those nice young paramedics saw me virtually topless."

"Yea, verily, how I envy them," he said with a wicked grin and low whistle.

"Play your cards right and you may get your chance," she retorted. "But first you get to suffer by bringing me clothing to cover them."

"I can do that," he nodded, "if you trust me in your place all by myself."

"Got a deep feeling I can trust you implicitly," she retorted. "I need a pair of yoga slacks, a t-shirt, a bra and panties. I wasn't kidding when I said I needed to get out of here."

"I refuse to be an accessory to an escape attempt." He heard the desperation in her voice and warned, "Not until you've been cleared by both the hospital and FBI doctors. You'll probably do at least a few more days down in med/surg, then they'll kick you loose with a home health nurse to visit you."

"Still want some clothes, though," she asserted. "I hate hospitals. Only one I liked was the one my sister worked at. Those people were like family. Hanging with them was fun." She remembered bringing in things for the night shift staff. It was good of the nurses at Mercy to call Carolyn and give her the medical report as quickly as they had, in the language all nurses had in common.

He looked at her with a narrowed gaze. "This is some serious stuff going on here, Sarah. You can't simply walk away from it or blow it off and pretend you didn't take some damage."

"You're telling me I'm a lousy patient. Save it, John, I've heard it before, especially from my sister." She smiled wistfully. "But I think she's finally given up on lecturing me, which makes it easier."

"It won't get easier from me," he said assertively, "I'm telling you to give it time. Let them take care of you," he urged. "Let _me_ take care of you, too."

"I'm not weak," she said indignantly. "You can't be a cop and be weak, especially when you work for the Feds."

"Has anyone said you are?" He studied her expression carefully. "Didn't think so. Sarah, you have nothing to prove to me or anyone else. The circumstances were beyond your control and you almost died. It takes time to heal." He had an innate way of putting everything into perspective.

"Okay, you win," she conceded. "My sister's coming out in a couple of days or so; she's a Registered Nurse. She's not fond of New York but she's coming out to get me back on my feet, and she'll see some friends in the bargain." She grinned wryly. "Not sure how that's going to shake out, because she doesn't even know where the grocery stores are near my place. This will definitely be interesting."

"Have you talked much since you've been here?"

"This afternoon, when I finally started coming out of my fog."

"Does she know about us?"

"Yeah…she does. I wear my lust on my sleeve, always have." She watched him straighten in the chair. "She teased me about getting involved with another cop."

"'_Another_ cop'? Ahhhhh, so now I'm one of many, I see," he said, half-teasing, wondering who'd been by her side before. He felt a pang of jealousy and knew he was in too deep. FBI, too; it was like marrying outside your religion – or worse. Stabler _hated_ almost all FBI agents except Huang, and Munch would never hear the end of it if word of his interest in Zelman got around the house. As he knew it would, sooner or later.

"You could always run my jacket; seriously, John, you already have access to my background with the Bureau. My jacket will tell you all about my first marriage to the wife-beater, then the long dry spell until Danny Stranahan and I got together for five years. It will probably even touch on the near-breakdown I had after he and I split; depending on Huang's notes. I made the mistake of thinking Danny was my forever man."

"I made the same mistake with each of my ex-wives," he admitted. "How long were you married?"

"Seven years. Only the last two were hell on earth."

"I'm impressed…yours lasted longer than each of mine. Then five years with Stranahan. He was a lucky fellow."

"Thanks, but I never made it too easy on him." She didn't elaborate.

He started to finally relax; they were on the same wavelength now: failed relationships. Each was an expert on that topic and they continued to compare notes. "First one was violent?"

"Only to excess. I lived in 'podunk junction' and the police wouldn't prosecute him. One day, he threw a hammer at my head with enough force to enter drywall; it was attempted murder, premeditated. They _still_ wouldn't come out," she said bitterly. "I packed my bags and called in a favor from a friend for a place to stay in Virginia. The Bureau had a huge push on to hire more women, a directive from the Prez. I had been lifting weights and playing a lot of tennis, tried out and got in.

"The eleven-minute mile darn near killed me, but I made it – graduated in the top ten percentile, too. The structure was just what I needed and the action was exactly what I wanted. I'm no stranger to using my Glock. I'm itching to get back to the firing range."

"That's how you met Stranahan? He's a U.S. Marshal, if I remember correctly."

"You _know_ you remember correctly, John. We're past the point of playing games," she said, giving him _the look_ he'd grow to know too well. "Danny and I have history, a lot of it. If it means anything, we were both rebounding, he'd just left a high maintenance bitch for the _second_ time," she added, seeing the sour look on his face. "Found out he'd called 11 times on my voicemail. I still had my cell phone in what was left of my clothing."

"I hope you called him back," Munch said with genuine concern. "He's probably worried sick."

"Haven't been able to get a signal out. He does need to know I'm okay, though. The nurses called my sister immediately, but I couldn't let them call Danny."

"Why?" he asked. "Too personal?"

"I don't know, exactly," she fumbled for the words. "I just couldn't let them call him for some reason. George Huang could probably tell me why."

"Want me to call him? Let him know?"

"That would be too much to ask," she said, shaking her head as much as the neck brace would allow.

"If I were him, I'd want to know you didn't buy it in the Trade Center." He paused, waiting. "Coming from another cop, maybe that's what you were waiting for?"

"Maybe so," she admitted. "It would mean a lot to me, John… Thanks." The gratitude in her gaze almost broke him; she still felt something for Stranahan but he wasn't sure what. _Love? Pity? Pathos? Shame because she'd been in the building and hadn't known there was going to be an attack?_ He felt like a total ass because this would give him a quick and dirty way to find out how close they really were. Munch felt like, instead of doing her a favor, he was using her to his own advantage. _'All's fair in love and war' _he reminded himself, _but was this love? Or still that compulsive curiosity about her that had him hooked?_

"Two cops, you sound like you had each other's back. What went sour?"

"He and I both had commitment issues. He proposed, in a very roundabout way, no less than five times…it was serious. Men don't talk marriage unless they mean it," she watched him nod. "I'm a tough catch, to say the least. I adroitly sidestepped every proposal, but I had good reasons – plenty of warning signs. He wasn't as, uh, 'hot blooded' as I am – and he didn't want to move in together, even though we had a plethora of opportunities. The one thing he wanted more than anything was kids, but apparently I was supposed to have them by Immaculate Conception."

"You and he never – "

"Nothing but a few hot kisses on the neck and cheek. If I initiated anything, the temperature in the room dropped forty degrees; even a peck on the cheek would bring out the penguins. He had me on a pedestal. I was his Oracle of Delphi or his vestal virgin or something," she said with a shrug.

"He gave me all kinds of expensive gifts, but there was no dancing, especially between the sheets. I was starting to think his dog wouldn't hunt, if you know what I mean. Everyone assured me he was _so_ into me, he thought I was beautiful – but nothing eventuated. He told me I was beautiful, that he loved me… It was odd. It was also tremendously damaging, in it's own twisted way. Made me feel like an ice princess."

"I can see him wanting to be a gentleman, but five years is a long time to be together without making love. Especially if he didn't even want you to kiss him on the cheek." _God knows I couldn't go that long if I was Stranahan, but at least he recognizes beauty, _he thought bluntly. "Was he seeing other women? Was he…y'know…playing for the other team?"

"Nice interrogation, John, very smooth, really," she admired his easy way of chatting her up.

Munch blushed hotly. _She was on to him. Served him right to get caught._

"No way – on both counts. I had too many sources assuring me he was only in love with me, some actually tailed him to make sure he wasn't playing me. I did finally confront him about the gay issue and he decidedly was _not_ switch-hitting. He'd been hot when he was with his ex, but she dressed in enough polyester to clothe a trailer park.

"I was the exact opposite; confident, poised, not easily panicked, and I loved him unconditionally. When he stopped calling, I felt like I'd been suddenly cast-off without explanation – being punished somehow, for _what_ I didn't know.

"The most galling thing was, he wanted me to sacrifice my job while he played 'secret agent man' all over the country and down in Mexico.

"Plus" she continued, "well…let's just say we both had our pride, as much as we both had our tempers. One day, he forgot I was a Jew and he went into a very heated diatribe about Jews 'owning Hollywood.' That ripped it. Afterward, I felt like I'd dodged a fatal bullet. I didn't look back much after that."

He nodded, understanding those religious differences, since his brother had married 'a nice Jewish girl.' He'd always preferred what his now-elderly mother called 'shikses,' as he wasn't so observant that marriage to a non-Jewish woman had ever been an issue. He generally craved 'trophy wives'; beautiful women whom he could spoil rotten and show off at every opportunity.

He wanted women who got him noticed, Huang had explained to him. Women who validated something in him he felt was missing; women who shouted for him, "Look at me. I'm "The Man," because _I_ have her and _you_ don't." He always wanted the Hope Diamond, but then had to take its curse as well. After the first big wedding, the others had been civil ceremonies with receptions following, but he still couldn't kick his habit for trophies.

Was Sarah Zelman yet another trophy? She was nothing like the others, but he still wondered. _Oh, John, do **not** screw this one up. You will never forgive yourself,_ he thought.

_Kids._ He latched on to that topic and tortured himself with it once again. _Why is it that something which should be so easy and so fulfilling is always so complicated? _He thought back to Casey and his little-known Victorian (or could it be a closet Hasidic?) streak and questioned whether the population would survive decades of working women who bristled at the thought of raising a family. None of his ex-wives had wanted the stretch marks and morning sickness that came from pregnancy, but he could identify strongly with Stranahan this time. He bet Zelman would have made a great mom.

John Munch was different than Danny Stranahan, though, because he had every intention of getting Zelman into his bed as soon as she was ready for that step in their flourishing relationship. He wanted to make it all up to her…the years of waiting, the let-downs, the lonely nights. He would erase all of it and fill both their lives with the physical, emotional and intellectual pleasures they'd only dreamed of.

"I'm not one for double-standards, either," he concurred. "My wives wanted all the

money, while I did all the work. By the time I got home, each had usually developed a convenient headache or gone to bed already."

She looked at him incredulously. "Handsome fellow like you, I wouldn't have let you out of bed. They'd have to send a search party for you every Monday morning," she said, the morphine making her a bit more forthcoming than usual.

"Where were you when I needed you?" he teased.

He continued, "Weekends were spent spending more money, on things they'd inevitably get during each divorce settlement." There was still venom in his voice and Sarah felt his pain. They'd each fought their own relationship wars and lost too much in the battles.

"That's why cops should only date or be married to cops," she said. "We tend to understand each other a whole lot better than civilians understand us. Usually."

"I'm smart enough to know an invitation to a relationship when I hear one," John said, grinning.

"Hey! I _wasn't_ hunting – " she said indignantly.

"I know. But when I held your hand in the Tower, you didn't rebuff me," he said.

Chapter Nine: Admissions 

"I'll admit a deep, dark secret: I'm human. I was afraid. I still am, but not when you're around," she said quietly. "I've grown to hate the sound of F-16s patrolling the unfriendly skies. It's wearing on me. Just the sound of a jet gives me nightmares. It's adding to my PTSD." She realized they were holding hands again. It had grown into a comfortable habit with him; something they both missed in their previous relationships.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore, Sarah," he said, his tone more serious. "I'll be wherever you need me, whenever you need me." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, allowing his lips to linger for once. "This can – and will – work," he whispered.

"John Munch, do not dare break my heart…for once in my life I believe in something. I think we have a decent chance at something special."

"I do, too," he said softly. "It's keeping us going, isn't it?" he asked, as she tried to shake her head despite the neck brace, and the tears welled. She wouldn't cry in front of him, he knew. Not now, when she was fighting like hell to be strong. He knew she'd had to have been through hell at Quantico, but it was nothing like the hell she'd lived through in her personal life. He would make it all okay, maybe for the first time ever.

"Let's not screw it up what we're nurturing, shall we?" She looked at the clock and cringed. "Now head for home, before you get cheated out of a decent night's sleep. Please?"

"I'll get your keys from the nurses' station and bring your clothes tomorrow, as soon as I can," he said. "If nothing else, I'll find you on the med/surg floor."

"If not, you'll see me climbing out the window on a rope made of hospital sheets. Find the fire trucks with the big net and you'll find me." She winked, her eye bloodshot and the flesh around it black and blue but yet he smiled at the thought of her escaping. "Goodnight…" She released her grip on his hand so reluctantly; it was like she was giving up her grasp on the Holy Grail.

"'Night…" He took a long look at her before he left. He leaned over her and carefully kissed her cheek. She smiled; a peacefulness that he'd never seen in her before. The gentleman in him resisted the urge to kiss her lightly on the lips, but the longing to do so followed him home and into his deep sleep.

He awoke early the next morning and that allowed him more then enough time to check out Sarah's digs. He stared at the address. _Only two blocks away, all this time, _he thought, contemplating how funny life could be. They could have seen each other on the street a million times, but it took a disaster to bring them together.

_Would she recognize Casey and recall seeing them together? _He pushed the thought from his mind as he walked down to her building in the brisk but warming New York weather; it was a nice place, with a doorman for added security. He had expected that; he'd brought an extra cup of tea with him from the corner cart.

"Good morning," he said brightly, handing the tea to the uniformed fellow. "I'm Detective John Munch, here to get a few things from Agent Zelman's apartment." He flashed his badge to prove he was legit.

"Pleased to meet you, Detective," he said, shaking hands. "Thanks for the tea – it's pretty nippy out here this morning. "Let me pay you for it."

"Nope. My treat," he said simply.

"Her apartment's on the second floor. I heard she's hospitalized… How is she?"

"We're hoping she gets out of I.C.U. today, which is why I need to bring her a few things. By the way, you're Charlie?" He remembered her description of him; it had been very thorough.

"That's me. I work a 12-hour shift. You'll either see me, Tony or Umberto most of the time. Glenn and Kevin work weekends with me from time to time. We're a pretty tight bunch – if you need anything, just let us know."

Munch palmed the doorman a fifty as he shook hands with him. "Pleased to meet you, Charlie." He lowered his voice and moved in a bit closer. "What I need is anonymity. You never see me here, got it?"

Charlie felt the money in his palm. "Got it – but you don't have to pay for my discretion, Detective. Sarah more than takes care of all of us. She brings us coffee sometimes, _always_ makes sure we're warm. Heck, once she made brownies for us, from scratch, in the middle of a cold winter's night. Padded down in her pajamas, slippers and a coat, so we could have brownies warm from the oven. And fresh coffee.

"We were all shocked when she said she was an FBI agent. Had her pegged as a writer or something." He looked very sad for a moment. "It's a tragedy about her friends at work. I lost good friends in the Port Authority, too."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Munch said somberly. There wasn't anyone he knew who hadn't lost someone over the past several days. "We lost a good team of street cops from the 16th." He had known them fairly well; they had reminded him of Elliot and Olivia and had the potential to come up from unies to street clothes. At least now they were together forever, he reminded himself before the depression could take hold of him once more. _Bernie's job,_ he thought, _making the trip a finality. How could he do it, day in and day out? Probably something in the twisted genetics of the Munch family shrub._

"This building is more than home…it's a community. We take good care of each other, all of us." Charlie forced a smile. "When Sarah comes home, we'll be overjoyed."

"As will I. Spread the word among the others, so the bunch knows Munch," he said, grinning. "I have to get her things. See you around, Charlie – and thanks."

"My pleasure, sir. But this really isn't --" He tried to return the fifty discreetly and Munch waved him off. He looked around to make sure he wasn't heard. "She's in 205."

He entered Sarah's place after unlocking no less than four deadbolts. He wouldn't have expected anything less. There were heavy-duty slide-bolts on the inside, too. She had a lot to protect – herself and the information she had access to through the FBI.

Her apartment smelled of lavender and various cleaning solutions; it was cleaner than he expected for someone who was always in demand at the Bureau.

He checked her refrigerator; empty except for a few containers of yogurt and soy milk, which were well within date. _Was she lactose intolerant, too?_ Munch wondered. He saw Diet Coke, Boylan's No-Cal Cream Soda, a squeeze bottle of U-Bet chocolate sauce, soda water, brown farm fresh eggs, bagels, cream cheese, sugar-free strawberry preserves… He wondered what other kinds of food she liked, and for good measure if her sister shared her tastes in cuisine. _He was determined to get in good with her sister, no matter what it took. _The freezer was filled with Lean Cuisines, a dozen varieties of chicken. Plenty of frozen fruit, too.

The sink was empty, the counter clean. A Braun coffee maker sat lonely, kept company only by a box of filters and bag of finely ground French roast.

In the pantry, single serving cans of vegetables and quick-fix soups. A multi-pack of breakfast cereals. Did she ever eat real food? Or maybe she simply never had time for a decent meal.

He made a mental note to fill her refrigerator and freezer with healthier groceries before she came home, as well as sneak in some ethnic food, so her sister wouldn't have to flounder about to locate a market. He preferred women with healthy appetites; none of that 'four bites of a fifty dollar dinner' crap. Olivia knew how to eat and he envied Elliot even more than usual as he thought about them. He hoped Sarah liked to eat as much as he did. He'd never met a dessert he didn't like, for that matter.

He saw a laptop with a heavily cased cable leading to it, probably a shielded cable with the latest scramble technology. Munch wondered what was on her laptop, but didn't dare so much as open it. First, it had a genuine lock on it, but he did have the key. More important, this was her place and, despite his profound curiosity, he would behave himself.

Except for her medicine cabinet. Checking medicine cabinets wherever he went was always his downfall, but she knew it was a common compulsion and thus it was empty save for enough first-aid supplies to handle almost anything and a few toiletries. If she was taking anything for her PTSD, she hid it well…just as she hid the syndrome from everyone except Stranahan, himself and George Huang. _At least she was forthcoming about it with me,_ he thought, _and it was probably yet another issue with Stranahan._ _If I were going to pull anyone's jacket, it would be his, _he thought, wondering whom he could get at the U.S. Marshals' office to do so discreetly. He wanted to know everything about his competition possible and to see if Sarah was his emergency contact.

He went into her bedroom to gather the clothes she'd asked for. He noticed she was extremely tactile – a corduroy duvet cover over t-shirt material sheets. Unpretentious velvet curtains with light-blocking shades; she'd had to grab sleep whenever she could get it. Wall-to-wall carpeting in a soft gray, luxurious padding beneath; he was leaving inadvertent footprints. He thought briefly of carpet burns and grinned. She'd be worth the pain and ribbing he'd take at work.

It was deliciously cool in her digs. The bed was stacked high with pillows, including a body pillow that would come in handy during her recovery. A bolster was on the wicker trunk at the foot of the bed. The colors were impeccable; jewel tones, but everything had been carefully coordinated, with a slightly bohemian feel.

He allowed himself a selfish moment; he stretched out on her bed. He sank into it in the most pleasant of ways, enjoying the scent of her hair that surrounded him, wondering if the mattress had a pillow top. He looked forward to spending more time in her bed, only not alone. He closed his eyes and started to mentally undress her. Her bedroom had the faintest scent of her cologne. He realized he was getting too comfortable and got up, smoothing the duvet cover and pillows.

She was all about softness; cotton jeans, sweats, denim jacket, corduroy jacket, leather and suede blazers, too. Even her more formal clothes were good quality fabrics that could stand the test of time and fieldwork. Four pairs of sensible shoes were readily visible on the floor of her closet – low-heeled black pumps, athletic shoes, a pair of dress sandals and a pair of moccasins adorned with intricate beadwork. Some dark skirts and slacks, but a stylish mix of colorful and 'FBI drab' blouses. Her ubiquitous trench coat was a cream color, then he found a second one in black.

He found a pair of black yoga slacks that should give her enough room for the nylon and fiberglass leg brace, a matching set of gray bra and panties and a gray t-shirt with a V-neck to get around the neck brace. Suddenly his gaze lingered on two red bottles of pills, secreted in the lingerie drawer: pain killers and Xanax. He sighed when he discovered they were issued by an FBI doctor. He'd gathered by the fairly current date that she was still being treated for PSTD, which was almost always permanent, thus the Xanax, but the painkillers were almost a year older.

_Had she taken a bullet?_ There was a small hole in her t-shirt at about shoulder height, and she'd said something about working more with her Glock than usual to get back into 'perfect form.' She must have taken the shot, because upon closer examination there was also a slightly larger hole in the back of the shirt – also at near shoulder level. The material was a bit thin, as if it had been washed many times.

_What other secrets live here?_ he wondered.

He thought about the weather, took a guess and selected the corduroy jacket; it had the most give in the material. He'd snag her turquoise earrings from the Captain's safe and bring those, too.

Before he left, he checked out her CD collection in detail. She was a serious music aficionado – everything from Pat Metheny's smooth jazz to George Thoroughgood and the Destroyers, Clapton's blues and too many 1980s groups to mention. He smiled, recognizing a lot of the titles from his own collection of eclectic tunes. She even had international music, like The Weavers and other groups. Her classical CDs were all Russian and French composers; he'd bet she'd taken ballet at some point in her life. No one would listen to so many Russian symphonies without some purpose.

One purpose he found was on her bookshelves and she had so many bookshelves and floor to ceiling bookcases, he didn't even try to count. The music and books reminded him of his own place, in that regard. Books acquired from her eclectic interests, including volumes on the history of Russia, the Bolsheviks and the emergent Soviet Union, "The Making of the President" series and other political tomes, and too many biographies and autobiographies to count. Obscure reference books, well-thumbed, such as weaponry compendiums; language books, also well-worn, sat beside books on cryptology, criminology and a wide variety of related topics. They had so much in common, he was starting to wonder if their meeting was Fate.

Chapter Ten: Stranahan 

Her answering machine blinked frantically with over ten messages. He debated, then hit 'Play." Two were from her sister, whose voice sounded exactly like Sarah's; their voiceprints could have matched identically through both TARU and Quantico. Five more were from various friends, and at least three were from Dan Stranahan. The U.S. Marshal was trying hard not to panic, but by the third call he'd threatened to start canvassing hospitals – even if he had to take vacation days and fly East to do so. John let out a long sigh; sure sign Stranahan was still carrying a torch for his 'ice princess.'

Her address book was in a drawer under the answering machine. He looked up Stranahan's number and took a deep breath. _I'd want someone to do this for me,_ he admitted, _but it's awkward as hell._ He dialed, still wondering what he would say.

"Dan Stranahan." The voice was weary; Munch pegged him as a man in his early fifties. Too much work, not enough sleep. Probably another news junkie like himself, with equally raw nerves.

"Marshal Stranahan, this is Detective John Munch from the NYPD."

"This is about Special Agent Zelman, isn't it?"

"Yes…yes, it is."

"If you're calling me and she's not, it can't be good. I take it her remains were located today?" Stranahan felt his guts knot; he was sure she was gone and he hadn't even had a chance to write her eulogy. He startled as his son walked up behind him and put his hand on his father's shoulder, gripping it reassuringly.

"Actually, she did survive. She's in Mercy General Hospital here in New York."

_Silence_. He could tell Dan had already written Sarah off for dead and was about to lose it entirely. He heard a sharp intake of breath and waited for the Marshal to come undone like a spring too-tightly coiled for too long a time. He heard a muffled sniffling. _Allergies or tears?_ he wondered. He heard a muffled voice ask incredulously, "She's alive? Are they sure? My God…how?" _Must be the son, the younger Stranahan,_ he thought.

Finally, he heard a long sigh. "How bad? Danny asked. "I mean, will she make a complete recovery?" Munch had no idea the Marshal had been watching news television almost non-stop after Fox news erroneously reported the demise of the entire FBI division in the first Tower, hoping a breaking news story would show a body – her body – being carried out alive.

"She should be okay, according to the doctors there and the FBI doctor. She was in guarded condition initially. Been upgraded to stable condition, now that she's no longer in shock. Three broken ribs, a punctured lung, they removed her lacerated spleen, her liver is still badly bruised, her neck is sprained like hell, too. Worst of all, she had an eight-inch piece of rebar removed from her leg – it didn't hit any bones or nerves, it was basically a through and through. Poor gal, she's a mess of cuts, scrapes and bruises, but she's hanging in there.

"She's recovering from a concussion and hairline skull fracture, but they expect her blurry vision to clear in the near future." Munch made a mental note to get her glasses to his optometrist for repair, before she was released.

"Oh my God…" Stranahan whispered, his voice failing. More silence as he tried to process the information. Finally, he cleared his throat and asked, "Is there anything I can do? Can I send her some flowers or something? Does she need anything?"

"Everything's pretty much under control. They're keeping her out of pain and hope to transfer her to a medical/surgical floor tomorrow or the next day – out of I.C.U."

"When I didn't hear from her, I…well…you can understand. I was afraid she was gone. I couldn't get a hold of her sister, either."

"I understand completely," he agreed. "I was with her before she was rescued."

_Cut the guy a break, Munch._ "Her sister probably had her hands full with all the other calls," he reasoned. "I can arrange for flowers, if you wish."

"I'd like that…thanks. I'll be in New York soon enough, to pay you back. They're sending me out East on assignment. What's your precinct?"

"I'm with the 16th – SVU. Since the city basically came to a grinding halt when the planes hit, they took us off sex crimes and had us all on search and rescue. That's how I met Sarah – she was trapped."

"You stayed with her the whole time?"

"It was the least I could do. She told me about you; I'm looking forward to buying you a beer when you get here, Dan."

"Hey, John…the cold ones are on me," he said amiably. "Let her know I'm thinking good thoughts for her, would you? I tried to get her over here after she lost friends in the Oklahoma City bombing, but she wouldn't budge from the Bureau."

"Sure thing. See you when you get here. Then you and Sarah can catch up on things. I can tell you she's definitely looking forward to getting back to work," Munch admitted. "She mentions it a lot."

"We don't talk often, but I don't mind telling you this scared the hell out of me."

"No doubt," he agreed. "You and everyone else here and across the U.S."

"Not just what happened," he clarified. "I mean…about Sarah."

_I caught your meaning the first time, Stranahan,_ John thought bitterly. _You don't have to shove it up my ass. _"The important thing is, she'll be fine. She'll appreciate knowing I got word to you and I'll give her your regards," he said, faking his buddy-to-buddy tone.

"Dang… My supervisor's calling us into a meeting. I need to run, but thanks. It's a relief to know she'll recover. I owe you, Munch. I can call Carolyn and let her know the latest. I should be able to get through to her by now." _So, her sister has a name, _he thought._ 'Carolyn.'_

"I'll try to keep you updated and I won't forget the flowers. Anything in particular?"

"Mixed bouquet – she likes a lot of color. Nothing too ostentatious, though. Kind of an odd cat; she hates diamonds and red roses. She recognizes diamonds as the terrorist trade and prefers rose bushes to cut flowers," he said, still taken by her off-beat nature. Thanks again, John."

"No problem, Dan. Consider it done." And now, the most awkward part. "How do you want the card signed?"

"'Feel better – Danny.' Thanks for asking. Gotta run."

He ended the call, having gleaned the information he craved. At least Stranahan didn't want to send a dozen red roses and have the card bleed out his love for her. If he had, the order might have accidentally gotten 'lost.'

Chapter Eleven: Spooks 

Sarah Zelman was getting used to the new noise level and activity that made up the medical/surgical floor. It was going to be harder to sleep here, she knew, but being there meant she was that much closer to a complete recovery. Sun streamed through a wall of windows and she could see the outdoors for a change. She missed the autumn colors and the feel of wind in her hair.

The nurses had been on beyond great. She was moved carefully and comfortably by a couple of handsome orderlies, then 'settled in' by the nursing staff. How they'd found the time to care for her so completely, she had no idea. If it had been left up to her, they'd all be rolling in bathtubs of money; they were sorely over-worked and criminally underpaid, especially with the city in crisis. When she got out, she was going to pay for a catered meal for each shift that had cared so much for her. It would be the _least_ she could do.

They'd washed her hair with a special shampoo, she was able to use her crutches to stand at the sink and give her teeth a good brushing, an aide came in and gave her a luxuriously warm bed bath, and then she had been switched from the mind-numbing morphine drip to pain pills and an injection of Demerol when the pain passed what the pills could control.

For the first time since being admitted, she felt hopeful. Best of all, she felt clean. They hadn't removed the I.V., but she figured she couldn't have everything right away. She tried not to look in the mirror, because her appearance suggested she'd come out on the losing end of a bar brawl.

Almost an hour later, two men in black suits, dark ties and dark gray trench coats walked in with a small floral arrangement. She vaguely recognized them; they were from the Agency's department of human resources. "Gentlemen," she said neutrally, trying to gauge the look on their faces. Their faces were studiously blank.

"Agent Zelman," they each said, one of them sitting the flowers on her night table. They studied her carefully, she noticed; their eyes lingered on her neck brace, the leg brace and she wondered how many questions they'd asked at the nurses' station, scrutinizing her chart. Later, she knew, that chart would be copied and placed into her jacket.

She let out a controlled sigh. "I take it you're not here to wish me well," she said, "or you would have done me the favor of saying that already – and smiling." They were young; the Agency always sent their youngsters to do their dirtiest work, because that's how they broke in their rookies. "Just spill it, guys. You can skip the suspense. Leave it for the movies, where it belongs," she said evenly.

"Alright," the taller of the two said, sitting down. She noticed his partner didn't sit; he had the other man's back and that made her wonder what this was really all about. "As you know, the Tower offices have been completely destroyed." Zelman nodded. _As if I hadn't noticed, she thought bitterly._ "We took a deep look inside the organization and right now, we have no place available for you."

"So, you wait until I'm flat on my back to come fire me," she said flatly. "How totally FBI. In case you haven't read my interior jacket lately," she snapped, "I've given you just over twenty years of service – never once been written up for so much as littering, let alone anything serious such as breaches of intelligence. And you would think my closure ratio would grant finding me a place at Quantico or D.C." _She or John could take the train on weekends, so they could be together; she'd already had it all worked out in her mind. They'd create a way to make it work, no doubt about it. _

"We have read your jacket – all of it – and it is, as you've reminded us," he said pointedly, "more than exemplary. But we have other, more experienced agents that have seniority to be reassigned to the Quantico and D.C. offices. Transfers have been taking place while you've been out of action, and they're continuing."

"When will you have a place for me again?"

"We have something we'd like to run by you instead…" the second man said.

"Which is?"

"We'd like to ask that you consider taking early retirement," he said, dropping the bomb. "We'd retire you generously at the twenty-five year level, provide a bonus for exemplary service, pay out your unused sick days and vacation, maintain your security clearance and computer access in order that you can still consult for us as needed, maintain your medical, life, dental and vision insurance plans permanently, and guarantee that you would indeed maintain your badge, ordnance and consulting status for as long as you desire them."

"If I decide to let you keep me on a string," she said evenly. "Sounds exceptionally lucrative," she agreed. "Of course, if I don't go along with it, I'm well-acquainted with the consequences." They both wore dark glasses, but she knew her stare was drawing them down. The seated one shifted in his chair and the standing one was transferring his weight nervously from foot to foot. _Rookies_. No one was going to attempt to intimidate her and get away with it. She'd known other agents who'd been given this choice, refused it and been left out in the cold. "Can I work for other law enforcement agencies?"

"We can allow that," he said, "most assuredly. We have no objections to your drawing the usual salary of any organization you choose to work for, either."

"You'll turn a blind eye if I 'double-dip' with the C.I.A. or Secret Service – or, for that matter, any other agency I choose to work for after recuperating?"

"The Agency will do that," they agreed.

"Get me the paperwork with **all** of these conditions spelled out in detail, in writing," she said. "If the document matches your promises, I'll sign it right away."

The man who was standing took out a large manila envelope. "We have it all right here," he said. "We'll be back from lunch in an hour. We trust that gives you enough time to review and sign the Agency's offer."

She sighed, knowing full-well she'd just been put out to pasture. "C'mon back in an hour. Are there two copies in there, one for my files and one for the Agency?"

"Of course, Agent Zelman."

"They'll both be signed by the time you get back – _if_ everything is stated as you've said." She taunted them as they left, unable to resist. "Try the pastrami on rye in the cafeteria. I've heard it's pretty good."

With that, the 'suits' left the envelope on her tray and swept from the room.

"_No wonder they refer to us as 'spooks,'_" she thought bitterly, as the unsealed envelope opened far too easily in her shaking hands.

She looked in the drawer of her nightstand and found her cell phone. She dialed Dr. Huang and was relieved it didn't go straight to voicemail. "Dr. George Huang. May I help you?"

"Dr. Huang. Sarah Zelman here." She hoped there wasn't as much bitterness in her voice as she felt.

"What can I do for you, Sarah?" His tone was so comforting, practiced daily through many years at his craft.

"You can tell me you didn't have anything to do with the FBI firing me," she said kindly, yet bluntly.

"Excuse me… They did _what?"_ He was shocked, especially after he'd written a ream of documentation to try and ensure she'd return to the field with no deficits, as soon as she was physically able to do so. "I showed them a report I'd written, the purpose of which was to get you back in the field as soon as you felt up to it."

"I believe you – and I appreciate that, George. But a couple of 'suits' just came in from H.R. and put me out to pasture," she said, giving him the condensed edition of the showdown. "I'm going to sign all of this, because I have no other choice, but I'm less than pleased they intentionally chose this moment to put me out. Those bastards, how _dare_ they do this to me!"

"Do you want me down there?" he offered, reaching for his coat. "I can't even to begin to imagine how upsetting this must be for you. Would you like to talk?" Suddenly, his voice went from calm to almost rattled. "Oh, Sarah… I'm so sorry. Please – "

"Thanks, George," she said softly, "but we both know the Agency. Once the Bureau wants you out, you're going out in one way or another. At least this is a most lucrative deal, so I'm okay signing off on it. I'd also just as soon you weren't associated with it, because you could accidentally get your hands dirty."

He recognized the code for 'do not endanger yourself on my account.' "Shall I tell Munch?"

"Absolutely not. We both know John pretty well now. He'll go ballistic and he'll quickly get in way over his head," she warned. _"These people do not play;_ you and I both know that. He thinks he knows whom he's dealing with, but he truly doesn't. They could kill his career…or worse, put him in danger or get him fired. I'll tell him when the time is right, I'm just not sure when that will be yet.

"He's picking up some dinner for the two of us tonight. I probably won't have much of an appetite, but at least it won't be hospital food." She tried to sound more positive than she felt. "I just wanted you to have advance notice, in case anything gets said around the Bureau. You'll be able to keep my reputation intact, in case they decide to change their story and vilify me."

"You know I will, Sarah," he said, letting go of the forensic psychiatrist in him for a moment and simply being her close friend. "I'm so sorry… You deserved better – _much_ better, for everything you've done, for all the times you've put your life on the line for them. For every bullet you've ever taken. I'd say more, but they're probably eavesdropping."

"I wouldn't put it past them, she agreed. After an uncomfortable silence, she said, "Well, a good friend named George Huang once told me, "'Learn to roll with the punches.' That's exactly what I intend to do. I'm going to find another job when I'm out of here. I'm going back to work as fast as I can."

"Good to hear you say that…and thanks for remembering my advice."

"I'll keep you posted," she said. "I'd better review all this paperwork and sign everything before they get back. They must be desperate because they're only giving me an hour."

"That's all?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yeah… Something's going on at the top, I can tell. They can take the Special Agent out of the field, but they can't rob the intuition from the Special Agent." She sighed, looking at the copy marked "Secret" in front of her. "It even has a clearance, so I better get it signed. Take care, George. Nothing to Munch or anyone else, okay?"

"Promise. Thanks for the heads' up, Sarah. See you later," he said. "'Bye." He closed his phone, utterly disgusted. _Was he next?_ he wondered. _It wouldn't take much; it never did in dealing with the Bureau. In one day, out the next, he thought angrily._

She had painstakingly reviewed the paperwork as she spoke with Huang. Everything was exactly like it had been described. _They probably wanted me out long ago, but didn't have the right excuse, _she thought sourly. She signed her name to both copies, noticed the head of H.R. had signed them both already – another indication of premeditation – and slipped one copy back into the manila envelope, She left it on her tray. _At least I'm set for life, or so they say,_ she thought ruefully. _Nice. Neat. Tidy. The FBI way. Sons of bitches – no wonder so many people hate us. They knew once Steve DiMarco no longer had my back, they'd get rid of me. I hope they learn what it's like taking a bullet, she thought bitterly. To hell with karma. Let 'em each take a nine-mill. It would serve 'em both right._

The 'suits' had returned and took one set of papers with them, as a permanent entry into Sarah Zelman's classified FBI jacket. There had been no forced chit-chat this time and she was glad. The only thing she could think of was a string of expletives, anyway.

She had folded the others, placed them into an envelope from the nurses' station and sealed everything. She would give the envelope to John Munch, along with her safety deposit box key, and have him place the papers into safe-keeping. He could do it without being followed.

After the suits had gone, she pressed the call button for a nurse. "May I help you?"

"Yes, please," she said, trying not to ruin anyone else's day. "Would you take these flowers and give them to someone who might enjoy them?"

The nurse walked in, a bit puzzled. "They're beautiful… But weren't these from your friends at the FBI?" she asked.

"Oh, they're from the FBI alright – but those men were anything but my friends."

Chapter Twelve: Dinner 

"You're pretty quiet tonight, sweetheart," John Munch said softly. "Everything okay?" He looked at her through the top of his Transition lenses and raised his brows. "Anything wrong? Are you in too much pain to eat? I can call a nurse."

She poked at her orange-flavored chicken; it was her favorite, but tonight her appetite had evaporated. She forked a piece and popped it into his mouth. Holding hands and feeding each other; it was becoming a ritual of comfort. "I think I'm just a little thrown off… I.C.U. was so quiet and so private, and despite having a private room here on med/surg, it's a lot noisier and there's so much to get used to. All the nurses, however, have been more than wonderful. They're keeping me out of pain as much as they can, so no worries there, either."

He tilted his head back ever so slightly and watched her for a moment. "That's all?"

"Yep, I think that's it." She ate a little of the chicken, more to make him happy than anything else. They opened their fortune cookies. "What did yours say?"

"It says, 'Help, I'm a prisoner in this fortune cookie factory.' Guess I'll have to bag this as evidence and get it over to Missing Persons right away, huh?" How he could crack such bad jokes with absolute deadpan, she never knew. "What does yours say?" he asked, popping part of the cookie in his mouth.

"'Beware of handsome cops bearing dinner,'" she said, refusing to show him the real fortune, 'Some Walls Have Ears.' "I was thinking today that once I get home, things will be fine." She brightened a bit. "Hey… I just realized – no oxygen mask. C'mere, handsome," she said with a wicked grin.

"What?"

He leaned over her and she grabbed his tie and playfully pulled him down into a soft, sensual kiss. He didn't pull back, but instead leaned into the kiss and gave her a second as soon as they'd finished the first. He felt her fingers run through his hair and he wanted her so much. He very carefully put his arms around her, still afraid he'd hurt her somehow. He wanted nothing more than to slide into bed with her, but she wasn't up to what he had in mind…certainly not yet.

"Good thing you're not eating shrimp or lobster, or I couldn't do that."

"I have no clue why you waste your time staying kosher, when God doesn't have time to worry about what we put in our mouths," John teased. "It's almost as bad as that pointless astrology crap."

"Not about staying kosher – severe iodine allergy. Penicillin, too."

"Remind me not to kiss you when I indulge in my moldy bread and green peanut butter habit."

"Right. Now I finally start to discover your flaws. You probably ate paste as a kid, too."

"Still do, if this is any indication." He held up a piece of limp carrot tempura. "Tried a new place, close to the hospital. Next time, we go out to my favorite Chinese place – and I'll remind them no oyster sauce."

"You catch on quick," she said, as he came in for another kiss. She thought about how good he tasted. She didn't want the kissing to stop, but they both felt a bit self-conscious considering the locale. They interlaced their fingers as a change of pace from holding hands. "John…"

"Hmmmm?"

She deliberated. The actions were easy but the words were hard. "I love you," she said softly, simply, truthfully. She looked up and they gazed at each other for the longest time.

"I love you, too," he replied, a semi-dreamlike look on his face. "That's not what's wrong, is it?" He sat up straighter in the chair was suddenly afraid she was having second thoughts about the two of them.

"Oh, hell, no!" she shot back. "I…well, hadn't planned to break up the party, but… I got a visit from the Bureau spooks today," she finally blurted out.

He looked concerned; his gut feeling was accurate. Something was _very_ wrong here. She had been holding out. "Tell me what was said," he responded, "and I mean _exactly_ what they said," trying to remain John Munch her soon-to-be lover and not Detective Munch who had a deep distrust of all things governmental.

"Can't go into it here," she explained. "The document carried a classification." She didn't want to remind him his clearance was merely 'Confidential,' but she dangled her keys in front of him. "Can you get this into box 776 at the Manhattan branch of Barnett Bank? Without being followed?" She pulled the envelope from beneath her pillows.

"I don't even get to read it, do I?"

"Can't let you…yet. You just have to trust me," she said. "If you'd rather not – "

"I'm more than willing, sweetheart; getting it there without being tracked is no problem. You'll have to arrange my access, but that should be easy enough."

"I have friends all over that bank. Getting you access is easier than breaking a Post Office Box," she said, referring to the practice of using a Postal Service informant to give out the physical address of the person who's P.O. Box is being 'broken.' "I just want you to be more careful than you've ever been in your life. Something's going on and I haven't figured it out yet. I was visited by a couple of trench coats today, and that's all I can say until more shakes out."

"Are we in danger? You and I?"

"Nope. And we'll keep it that way." She pulled him into another long, sensuous kiss. "If I pay you back, could you get my glasses fixed? Or…wait… I don't even know what happened to them. Do you?"

"They're at my optometrists, being fitted with new Transitions lenses – extra dark, like they were before. The frames were fine, believe it or not. I'm picking them up tomorrow."

"You think of everything. Thank you." He leaned in for another kiss and the nurse caught them. "We're busted,' he mumbled, not taking his lips from hers until their kiss was completed.

"Think nothing of it. Physical therapy is encouraged on this floor," she said brightly. "Are you two going to finish that chicken? If not, you could donate it to the starving nurses of Mercy Hospital."

He'd bought enough for a small battalion, in case Sarah's appetite had come back with a vengeance. "Consider it done," John said. "As long as it also buys your discretion."

"You got it." She gathered up their dinner leftovers and left them to each other. It was late before John left; he and Sarah were still trying to puzzle out the interesting developments of the day. He finally kissed her goodnight around 10:30, as the nurse shot something into her I.V. that left her feeling decidedly sleepy.

Chapter Thirteen: Dreamscapes 

He went home and took a hot bath, drank some herbal tea and still couldn't get the 'suits' out of his mind. His first thought was that the Feds intended to fire Sarah, but that didn't add up. Her jacket, which he had run at her urging through George Huang, was almost too perfect. They had no grounds to get rid of her, but that never mattered to the Feds.

He'd deliver her envelope tomorrow afternoon, during lunch. Right now, he was ready to slip between his sheets and get some rack time. It was almost 11:45, long past his usual bedtime. He debated reading, but figured he'd get too caught up in another Kennedy conspiracy book and soon it would be dawn. Before he could think of much else, he was out cold and snoring lightly.

It was 12:38 a.m. and John Munch was sound asleep in a pair of black cotton scrubs. One of his ex-wives had been a Medical Examiner and he couldn't get why on earth she never wanted to get out of scrubs, until she had gotten him a pair. Then he fully understood.

More comfortable than a conventional pair of pajamas or sweat pants, he could show up in the middle of the night at a crime scene, get dirty and dump the scrubs in the wash. They always came out good as new, or even better. He pulled the duvet cover around his ears and enjoyed the cold draft drifting through the one-inch he'd raised the window. 'Good sleeping weather,' they'd called it in Baltimore. He drifted deeper into sleep, into a dream with Sarah and a replay of the kisses they had so easily shared. They'd kissed as if they'd been lovers for an eternity.

Forty minutes later, his home phone rang, dragging him from another replay of his first hour at the Trade Center. He startled awake and grabbed the phone with such force he almost dropped it. "John Munch."

"Sorry to call you at this hour, John. It's George Huang."

"It's okay, doctor," he said, suddenly fully awake. "Sarah – something's wrong."

"One of the nurses called me in. They said she was sitting in a corner of the bathroom, her hands over her ears, curled up in a tight ball. It's post-traumatic stress disorder – she's had it before, but the episodes are rarely this bad."

He was out of bed and trying to pull on athletic shoes with one hand, holding the phone with the other. "She told me. She's been having a lot of trouble with the F-16 and F-18 fly-bys."

"I went in to talk with her, but all she'll say is that she wants away from the jets. We've given her enough I.V. Xanax to take down a moose, but it's not working. We're still trying to lure her out of the bathroom, but she says it's the only place she doesn't hear jets. She won't say anything else. She doesn't even recognize anyone, least of all me. That's what concerns me the most."

Munch could hear the frustration in Huang's voice. The doctor was used to exceptionally challenging cases, but Sarah had finally cracked and he wasn't sure what to do. He knew the jets weren't the only trigger, but he couldn't under any circumstances share that with the detective. He was utterly exhausted and running out of options.

"Did she ask for me?" John queried.

"No, but you were the first person I thought of," he admitted. "Do you mind coming down here? Maybe between the two of us and a dose of Ambien, we can get her back in bed and asleep. Curled up in a ball in the bathroom can't be helping her broken ribs and sprained neck."

"I'll be right there. Don't tell her I'm on my way; I'm not sure how she'll react."

"You got it. Thanks," he added, hearing the phone click off.

He took the company car, red and blue bubble lights strobed as he cut through traffic with an occasional whoop of the siren when the intersections were too backed up. He commandeered a parking spot just outside the emergency entrance, flashed his badge, walked rapidly through the 'knife and gun club' and grabbed the first elevator he saw.

Outside the Nurses' Station, Munch saw the clutch of nurses and knew it wasn't good. Dr. Huang stood in the middle of them, giving them another crash course in handling PTSD crises. He looked up and saw the detective, in scrubs, trench coat and running shoes. "Hello, John. Let's see if we can get her back to bed." He held a syringe, presumably filled with Ambien.

"I'll go first, then call you in," Munch said. "I'm ready to stay all night, if I need to."

"Okay. Good luck."

"Not to worry… I'll be very gentle with her." Munch slipped in past the mostly-closed door to Sarah's room, opening the bathroom door and closing it behind him. "Hey, sweetie…" She had removed her neck brace and stared into space, mentally and emotionally locked in that world she'd been rescued from, with the roar of jets overhead in her mind every ten minutes. "It's me…John…remember me?" He slipped his hand in hers, worried that she hadn't responded.

"Make them go away," she said mechanically. "I can still hear them."

"Hear who? Hear what?" he asked tenderly. _Get her to talk,_ he remembered. She felt so cold; he took off his dark trench coat and wrapped it around her, ignoring the twinge in his back from the cramped position he was in. He carefully pulled her body against his. He realized her neck brace was off and cringed.

"The jets… I can't stand being in this space, hearing them above me. I can hear my coworkers, too… They're dead…all dead. Steve's in pieces, I can't -- " She sobbed uncontrollably. "Oh, God, Steve, I'm so sorry… Evelyn, the baby – " She cried in wracking sobs until dry heaves took her over.

"Evelyn was pregnant?" he asked, trying to make eye contact with her.

"She'd just asked me to be the godmother," she said, crying anew. "John?"

"Yes, love, it's me… I'm right here, holding you. Just let me hold you."

"I can't live like this. You should have left me to die, like I wanted," she whispered, sobbing against his chest like a small child. "I belong with them. I should have died along with them. Why am I here? Am I being punished, John?"

"You're here because you have purpose," he said softly. "God would never punish you, Sarah – never like this. Please, sweetheart… It will all be okay. Shhhhhhh…" He squeezed his eyes together as a blinding headache triggered. To his surprise, he also began to cry, silent tears slipped down his cheeks.

He leaned his head back and wondered what in the hell he'd done. He'd had no choice but to stay with her that day, make sure she was rescued, bring her back from that pile of debris that had taken so many of her – and his -- friends and acquaintances. And now, she wished he hadn't saved her; he'd inadvertently condemned her to _this_. _He'd pulled her back from Hell, only to send her there again, over and over. _He reminded himself that suicides didn't really want to die – they simply wanted the pain to stop and didn't know how to accomplish it without fatal consequences.

"I can make it all stop," he said. "Look at me, Sarah, and let me make it all right again."

"John, you can't." She slowly looked up. The tears tracked down her blank face and his heart broke. "You…just…can't. Nothing can stop this roaring in my head. Nothing can stop the screams I hear." She began to cry again; hysterically in deep, wrenching sobs, tears streaming down her face faster than he could wipe them away.

"Yes," he whispered. "I can. You're not in the Tower anymore…you're in Mercy Hospital and I'm here with you," he said softly. "No more concrete, no more blood…just us." He reached for her cervical collar and got the brace around her neck once more.

He saw Huang had opened the bathroom door when he heard her start to sob once again. John motioned with his other hand, toward her I.V. He felt lucky she hadn't taken it out and gone for a walk through the fifth floor window; the state she was in, literally anything was possible.

Munch watched as Huang gave the Ambien as an I.V. push, holding his breath in hopes it would work. "C'mon, babe… Your ribs and neck must be killing you. Do you need anything for pain?"

"I don't even feel anymore," she said mechanically. She seemed impervious to her pain as the sobbing abruptly stopped. She slowly got up, with his help. The drug collided with the bolus of Xanax and slammed her hard. She wobbled and her knees buckled as Munch and Huang both grabbed her, with a male nurse's help they lifted her back into bed. Another nurse had taken John's coat and draped it over a chair as they had steered her back to bed.

"You don't have to cover your ears anymore, Sarah," John said quietly. "This is all going to pass… Give yourself time to get better. The jets will be gone soon. They're only here to keep us all safe."

Another nurse came in and helped get her settled, checking her I.V. and placing a pillow against the left railing to help cushion her ribs. She shot something else into the intravenous; probably something for pain. She adjusted the pillow under her head to accommodate the neck brace.

Munch slipped off his athletic shoes and slid in beside her, carefully holding her. The nurse found another pillow and made sure John was as comfortable as possible, too. She brought him something for his headache, as he'd asked, along with a glass of water. He thanked the nurses and whispered something in elementary Russian to Sarah. There was a spark of recognition in Sarah's dark eyes.

"I love you, too, John," she said simply, understanding what he'd said. With that, she gradually fell into light slumber, her grip on Munch loosening as deeper sleep took her over. The nurse pulled up the rail on John's side of the bed and drew the sheet and blanket over them both. She dimmed the lights to almost full darkness, hoping that wouldn't exacerbate the episode, and put the call-button where Munch could reach it if Sarah needed anything else.

"You did it," Huang said. "I had a feeling she needed you," he said softly.

"I promised her…anytime, anywhere." He asked the nurse to awaken him around six a.m., to which she agreed. He listened as Sarah's shallow breathing calm down to something akin to normal, now with an oxygen mask placed over her face and mouth.

Slowly, hearing the jets overhead that had driven her into what used to be called 'shell shock,' he too drifted into an uneasy sleep as he held her.

Chapter Fourteen: No Secrets 

"You look like the third level of Hell," Elliot Stabler blurted, as Munch walked in. Stabler at the very least expected Munch to say, 'Bite me,' or something far more profane, but he was stone-faced. _Not_ _a_ _good_ _sign. He's even late, which almost never happens_. The detective was dressed to impress in his usual dark suit, dark shirt and stylish tie, but his face was drawn and he felt ancient. His normally perfect tie was loosened and his shirt was actually wrinkled. "John, what happened? This isn't like you at all. You okay?"

"Friend of mine had a serious set-back last night," he said simply, making coffee for the rest of the office and heating water for tea. "It wasn't pretty. They wanted to suicide, but at least they didn't quite have the means. Happened around 2:00 this morning."

"Is she okay now?"

"She?" He bristled. "Now how could you have known that? Word's out, isn't it, Elliot? That's the perfect start to my utterly lousy work day."

"Yeah, but Cragen said we're not allowed to give you any shit about it," he admitted, pulling no punches. "Brian spilled his guts, gleefully so," Elliot explained. "If he'd done that about Liv and myself, I would have put my .38 to his head. But what a waste of a good bullet." Munch tipped his head back, taking it all in. "Look, I know she's FBI and I'm in no position to chide you about fraternizing with the enemy. The important thing is, is she okay? Are _you_ okay?" He was genuinely concerned, not only about Zelman but for the two of them. "John, just tell me what I can do and you know I'll do it."

"I wish I could tell you 'yes,' that we're both okay -- but the jury's still out on that," he admitted. "I've had less than four hours' sleep and feel like death on a soda cracker. Last night was more than brutal; ask George Huang and the night-shift nurses over at Mercy."

"Hit the crib," Stabler offered. "Grab a couple-three hours and I'll let Cragen know what's going on. I'll cover for you."

"Have I told you lately you're a prince of a guy? Seriously, El, I appreciate this." He hung up his suit coat and headed for the crib, grateful to have Elliot as a friend and coworker. "Be sure and wake me, though. Three hours should be more than enough. Thanks again."

"Anytime," Stabler said with a smile. "If you see Liv back there, would you wake her? I had to send her to bed last night. She's having trouble sleeping at her place, so she's first to get time with Dr. Huang." He shook his head. "Jets and helicopters are driving everyone over the edge, even my kids," he groused. "Better yet, wake up Liv in another five minutes instead of now, okay? I need to call Kath again and see how things are going."

"Will do." He reached into his pocket. "Here's my cell, in case anyone calls. I'm not expecting anything, but you never know." He smiled wryly. "It's up to us to take care of our women." They traded a knowing look.

"Gotcha. Get good rack time."

He nodded, feeling absolutely wrung out. "I owe you."

"Nah, you deserve a break. You're doing a very noble thing, John," he said, impressed. "Now go grab a crib, 'kay?"

"Nobody has to offer twice today."

Three hours later, Detective John Munch awoke, feeling like a new man. He found a discreet place to call and check on Sarah. She was in session with George Huang, but the nurse sounded hopeful. The odd thing was, aside from his declaration of love spoken in John's colloquial Russian, Sarah remembered nothing. No clue of the previous night's post-traumatic stress episode. Hours of nothingness, except renewed physical pain and a dream in which she heard John conversing with her in Russian and she understood what he had said.

She allowed herself to be hypnotized by Dr. Huang to try and remember the night's events, only because she deeply despised having memory dropouts. It wasn't the first time and she knew it probably wouldn't be the last.

For Zelman, the next four days in the hospital were focused around her afternoons with George Huang.

Chapter Fifteen: Dumped 

The next morning, Elliot heard whistling as he walked into the bullpen. It was something he vaguely remembered as Tchaikovsky. When he saw the source of the music, not just on tempo but also on perfect pitch, he was flabbergasted. If someone had bet him an entire paycheck that John Munch could whistle, especially so well, he wouldn't have made the rent that month. "John? If you're going to do that, maybe you should put out a tip jar and take requests," he quipped.

"Do your worst to screw up my great mood, Stabler," he shot back. "I have the afternoon off. Nothing can impose upon my exuberance, so don't waste your efforts on my behalf."

"Okaaaaay," he replied, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Do I have to get you into an interrogation room, or are you willing to clue me in?"

"You're on a 'need to know' basis," he replied, "and you don't need to know." He went back to his whistling as he finished up on some very slightly overdue D-D5 paperwork. He knew if Elliot hated anything more then secrets held from him, it was being forced to twist in the wind until all was made clear. Munch sadistically let him simmer for a full hour and half, then said simply, "Sarah's being discharged from the hospital today. She wasn't too hot on using Medical Transportation Services, so Cap's letting me keep a company car."

"You met her sister yet?" he asked.

"Yesterday."

"And?" He gestured widely, "You look like you're still around to tell the tale, but sometimes with you we can't be sure if you're really alive or dead," he teased. "Do you two get along or not?"

"She's great," he admitted. "Already teasing the hell out of me, which I've been told is a good thing in their family. She has a nickname for me and everything," he said, smiling.

"I didn't know 'pencil neck' qualified as a nickname," Elliot said, laughing.

"Laugh if you must, but she calls me 'Badge Boy,' a play on 'bad boy.' Sarah said she'll shorten it to 'Badge' or 'Badger' soon enough – probably 'Badger' because she took a liking to my shades and my penchant for asking questions non-stop."

"Sarah or her sister?" he winked.

"Her sister," he said, "who happens to be called 'Bear,' adores Mexican food, sausage pizza with mushrooms, and buffalo wings." Munch had asked Sarah all about her sister's food preferences, then he headed to the store and shopped accordingly. Recuperative foods for his special gal, ice cream and breakfast food for him, and the spicy stuff for Sarah's sister. He'd also grabbed extra coffee, a few cans of Double Shot for Sarah, and some fresh vegetables to accompany all those Lean Cuisines in the freezer. There was already an impressive assortment of teas in the pantry; he would be well taken care of there.

"What time are they springin' her?" Elliot inquired, genuinely interested.

"Right after lunch, if all goes according to plan."

"Hope she likes those flowers you bought her," he fished.

"Nice try," Munch replied dryly. "Haven't arranged for them up yet."

"Guess that's your next call, right?" He saw Elliot grin and turn back to his computer.

"Don't give up your day job for the psychic hotline yet -- you'll starve."

Chapter Sixteen: Home 

"Careful…careful on the crutches, Sarah," Munch warned, worried she'd fall and re-injure herself somehow. He held open the car door and she swung in easily, handing off the crutches to John.

"You worry too much," she said simply. "I spent four years on and off crutches – more on than off – and then the Feds finally realized knee surgery was a better investment than sticking me behind a desk."

"What the hell happened – _four years?"_ he said, having stowed the sticks in the back and slipping into the driver's seat.

"Yeah, it was a long, agonizing time. Ligament and cartilage damage, during a bust," she explained. "Perp and I went down two long flights of stairs, beating the living hell out of each other all the way down. They started calling me 'Tigress' after that, because I was so livid I wasn't letting go. I literally saw everything through a red filter.

"The perp thought he was getting away, but after popping one of our own, there was _no way_ he was going to shake me. I wanted to pop him when we found him, but my partner kept me from it, luckily, or I'd probably have lost my badge. Then the perp started to run and I tackled him; down the stairs we went. He ended up with an arm broken in two places which never did heal properly, a concussion that almost turned him into a basket-weaver – and my partner and I got medals for bravery."

"Your partner take any damage?" he asked. "Or did he stand there with his hands in his pockets, while you did the heavy lifting?"

"Nothing more than a few scratches," she said, "but it all came down so fast, he really had no time to react. He wanted to pull me off, but I was so furious over a field agent getting killed, I probably would have taken him down with us, too, in the fighting. He thought it was going to be an easy bust. That was his downfall…always thinking in those terms, because of the advance work we did, it would almost always be an easy bust."

"How long were you partners?"

"Three years," she said. "I moved up to Special Agent; he didn't." Her eyes misted over and she closed them for a moment. "He was popped two and a half years later," she said. "On what was supposed to have been another 'easy bust.'"

"Well, that's all in the past…" John wasn't about to let anything ruin the mood today. "We're almost to your place," Munch said. "Excited?" He knew Charlie and the gang would be.

"It'll be good to see everyone again, especially Carolyn. I hope she brought some cross stitching or she'll be bored to tears. I have a lot to catch up on," she explained.

"You have recuperating to do, too," John reminded her.

"Not to worry. I can access everything I need from my laptop," she said brightly. "Ohhhhh, the things I have to show you, you have no idea."

"Bet they don't compare to the things I'd like to see," he replied with a smirk.

"Wouldn't bet your paycheck on it," she retorted.

"Really? I would." He raised his brows and she laughed.

Munch smoothly pulled the car into the loading and unloading zone, set the bubble lights to strobe and got out Sarah's crutches from the back.

"She's home!" he heard a familiar voice yell. "Oh, Sarah, how we've missed ya!" Charlie cried, opening the car door and getting a peck on the cheek for his efforts. "Let me help you out, love, and then I'll let your sister know you're on your way up!" He was absolutely overjoyed; Munch could relate.

"Don't tell her…it's a surprise," she said, the crutches leaned against the car. "I'm on these one more week and then they can go in the dumpster for all I care," she said, laughing. John grabbed her hands and pulled; she stood easily and took the crutches from him. "Please tell me you have time to come up?" she asked.

"I have the entire afternoon," he replied, smiling.

"You never told me that!"

"That's _my_ surprise for _you_," he quipped. "Wait for me in the foyer and I'll move the car. Won't take but a second or two."

John Munch pounded on the door to Sarah's place. "Open up **now**! NYPD!" It was all he could do to keep a straight face. Sarah rolled her eyes and tried to shake her immobilized head. "Ow!" she hissed. "Quit trying to make me laugh."

"Badger, if that's you, the refrigerator's _full_," Carolyn said, hoping it wasn't yet another shopping bag filled with goodies. She looked through the wide-angle peephole and opened the door. "What I brought home won't fit in the refrigerator," he said, guiding Sarah to the front door. Locks came undone with lightning speed and the door was thrown open.

"Sis! Tigress! You weren't supposed to be home until tomorrow morning." She grabbed her sister in a huge hug, then pulled John into the mix. He looked a bit befuddled at first, then allowed himself to be nearly suffocated by two beautiful women. "Get in here – Anita's here!"

"And the flowers are here with perfect timing," John said, watching a young kid with a large bouquet make his way down the hall. He extricated himself from the hugging, paid and tipped the delivery boy and was left holding a very large floral arrangement.

"Oh, my God… John, those are gorgeous! Thank you so much!" He put them inside on the dining room table and got a hot 'thank you' kiss as his reward. "But you got me flowers in the hospital, you didn't need to do this." She kissed him again.

"I wanted to," he said, returning the kiss. "You deserve every petal."

Carolyn was trying to signal to Anita to get up and get out there, before she missed all the good stuff.

"Let me see the handsome cop!" Anita Fein said, trying to put her stitching aside in time to get a glimpse.

"Don't worry, Anita," Sarah said, "he's staying for the afternoon."

They walked in to a long wolf whistle. "My, my, my… You've done very well for yourself, Sarah."

"Oh, quit that!" Zelman's cheeks reddened.

"Don't just stand there…introduce us." She was up off the couch now, in the dining room, looking at him from side to side. The gold badge, the Glock, nothing went without Anita's careful scrutiny.

"Anita Fein, who makes a habit of whistling at strangers, meet Detective John Munch – who brought the M&Ms," she said pointedly. "John, meet Anita…one of my and Carolyn's best friends."

"A pleasure," he shook hands and noticed she didn't give him his hand back too soon. She was, in a word, gawking.

"Earth to Anita…don't make me tell Steven you're doing this," Carolyn joked.

"She's sizing up my boyfriend and she's married. That's our Anita!" Sarah laughed, as she made her way into the living room. "At least you two didn't try to break into my laptop," she said, relieved.

"We figured the lock meant one of two things," Carolyn said lightly. "Either you learned to play 'World of Warcraft' and didn't want me leveling up your characters, or if we did open it the FBI would show up and arrest us immediately."

"Well…maybe not immediately," she admitted, "but you have to play computer games on my regular laptop. This tracks every keystroke."

"So they know what a horrible typist you are?" Munch asked.

"At least I use more than two fingers," she shot back. "And now, if you'll excuse us, I think John wants to help me get settled."

"Mind reader," he quipped. "Nice meeting you, Anita," he added with a wink. "Since I'm here, Carolyn can take time for her stitching and I'll take care of you."

"Threat or promise?" Sarah dared.

"_Promise,"_ John replied, leading her carefully toward the bedroom.

As his hand rested on the small of her back and they made their way into the master bedroom, Sarah could hear giggling as Anita said, "He's even hotter than Stranahan! Who would have guessed?"

Chapter Seventeen: News 

"The great news is, you're here," Zelman said, "and the better news is, I don't have to go back to the FBI."

"You'll be well enough to go back, sweetheart," he asserted, as she sat down on the bed. "It's just going to take a little time. Ten days? Two weeks? You'll be back," he said.

"You've got vacation time, too, if you need it," John reminded her. "You and Carolyn could spend time together back in Burbank – if you need to get out of town for a while." He had a thoughtful look on his face for a moment and added, "I've got vacation time, too. You could show me the San Fernando Valley for a couple weeks."

"No, honey," she said carefully. "John? I have some news."

He was taking off her shoes and socks, preparing to help her out of her yoga pants. "News," he said flatly. "Been holding out on me?" It was more statement than question.

"I didn't want to spoil the homecoming. While you were at work a few days ago, a couple suits from human resources came in, made me an offer for early retirement and put me out to pasture. It was either that, or just be forced out some other way," she said bitterly. "I'm set for life, and showing you the San Fernando Valley sounds very appealing, but I'm a cop out of work and I hate the thought of that."

"They didn't take your gun or badge," he said, not quite following.

"Or my security clearance," she added. "The bullshit line was that I may be able to 'consult' for them at some point."

She watched as redness spread from his collar to his cheeks and into his hairline. "Bastards!" he yelled. "Don't they realize – "

"John, shhhhhhhh…. I haven't told Carolyn yet and Anita likes to 'share the news,' so to speak. She's worse than Brian, if that's possible," Sarah explained. "Keep this quiet, _please_, honey." She stood up and he slipped her out of her pants and shirt. "Got an interesting call yesterday, though. It was from the C.I.A. – then a basket of flowers and another basket filled with muffins and pastries showed up about an hour after that."

He'd seen them at the nurses' station and they were huge baskets. He had no idea they had been sent to her; it was true, he realized morosely, the C.I.A. was courting her. She was being chased by a fellow agency, and she hadn't wanted to tip her hand until she'd made a decision. The bottom dropped out of his gut.

"When do you start?" he said glumly. "We can still make all of this work," he heard himself say, unconvinced, but trying to force optimism.

"Start? _I don't_," she replied. "I very sweetly explained to them I was flattered, but working for another government agency – after what happened, it was all too soon. Their people were most gracious about my declining their offer." She sighed. "I think they'll take another crack at me, but they probably want something to hold over me first. That's usually the way the game is played."

"What are you going to do?"

"First, stay squeaky clean, so they'll get nothing on me. George Huang is watching my back at the Bureau."

"And then? Maybe a shiny new gun in a velvet case with silver-plated ammo, from the Secret Service? Or maybe a gold star and a new car from the U.S. Marshals Service?" He was starting to get angry; angry at each of the government agencies that would come to take a stand and perhaps lure her away from him. _Please, God, don't let her want to go away,_ Munch silently bargained. _I'll even go back to shul…well, maybe not. But You get the idea._

"Hey, detective, time to get a hearing aid?" she chided pointedly, recognizing the growing sarcasm and anger in his voice, trying not to let him work himself into a fury. "You must not have heard what I said when I turned down the C.I.A. I have no intention of getting involved with another government agency," she said, surprised at the assertiveness in her voice. "I'm _done_ with those people."

"You're sure?" he asked. "This is only the first round of many, you have to realize that, Sarah. They are all in the process of courting you and it can become a very persuasive game for them, to get the knowledge you gave the Bureau – which is why you're still, technically, theirs in many ways. You may not like it, but you're the brass ring on the carousel right now," he reminded her. "And all of this before you're even well enough to get back to work." The selfishness in him wanted her to retire. To be home whenever he got home – to give him a _reason_ to come home.

"Don't be upset – "

"When you preface it like that, I'm _going_ to _get_ upset," he said. "It's a knee-jerk reaction I have."

"Okay… Sorry," she apologized. "Excuse the expression, but _screw_ the Feds – all of them. I'm toying with the idea of applying for the NYPD," she said quietly, "to see if it leads anywhere. They need people and I need action, so I thought maybe it would be best to check out the home team before committing to anything else governmental. They have to need more than just unies after what happened. I wasn't kidding when I said I was done with the Feds, but I have to work for my own peace of mind.

"I can relate. I'm double-dipping, too – drawing a pension from my homicide days in Baltimore, and now I'm still a few years from retiring from NYPD," he admitted. "But, enough with all this cop talk. I'm sending Walter Chen over from TARU first thing in the morning to sweep your apartment, in case there are any bugs. And if you get to keep the laptop, he sweeps that too. We're clear on that?"

"Yes, John. Very clear. Excellent idea, especially because I _do_ get to keep the laptop," she agreed. "But won't Cragen get hot, knowing TARU is doing you a personal favor?

"He owes me one," Much said lightly. "We trade favors all the time. I'll throw him some undocumented overtime to cover it."

"John – " she began to protest.

He put a finger to her lips. "He'll understand. This is some serious stuff, so let me take care of it for you. Okay?" He didn't want to argue, he wanted to get her settled in bed and read to her, one of the things he did while she was recuperating in the hospital.

"Okay; we'll play it your way," she agreed. "Besides, I wouldn't want too many people to see me doing this to you," she said as she began a hot trace of kisses from his neck to his lips. "Help me into my pajamas and let's take a nap together, shall we?"

"Sounds like a good trade to me," Munch replied, grinning. "I grabbed a couple newspapers. Want me to read to you afterward?"

"Absolutely." She kissed him again and was about to reward him. "I can't reach back and take off my bra. My muscles are too sore and this rib immobilizer isn't helping. Want to help me out here?"

A slow, sexy grin spread across John's face from ear to ear. "I think I could manage that." He took off her bra. "'Paradise Found' – Milton had no idea what he was writing about. He should have seen these," he said, admiring the view. "They're beautiful. It's a shame they're getting covered by a pajama top."

"Thank you. Sweetheart, meet 'winky' and 'binky' – your new best friends," she said, giggling.

John Munch had always said he'd wanted to go off Earth in the midst of making love to a beautiful woman. If Sarah had been up to what he planned for her, that night he could have passed away an extremely joyous fellow.

He'd stayed late, long after Anita departed and Carolyn had gone to bed. They'd ordered out for pizza and he'd even let Anita pick up the tab, while he took a tray of soft foods in to Sarah. He was buoyed she was showing interest in solid food, even if it was still off-limits for a few more days.

He'd tucked Sarah into bed, positioning the body pillow around her neck brace and using the bolster to elevate her leg. He made her a cup of chamomile tea and gave her a couple of the pills she'd been sent home with, then sat and talked with her about conspiracy theories until she wasn't participating anymore.

She was a conspiracy theory junkie, too, especially after she and her sister had seen strange lights in the New Mexico skies – more than once. Not just UFOs interested her, either. She had ideas about almost as many conspiracies as he had, everything from NASA to the oil companies, politics and everything in between.

He leaned over, kissed her gently on the lips and then had a thought. He set her alarm clock for six a.m., hung his clothes in her closet and slipped in beside her in his undershirt and briefs. That way, if she awakened during the night, he'd be there for her. He wasn't sure how often Carolyn would come in to check on her – and Carolyn was sleeping so soundly, he could hear her softly snoring in the guest bedroom.

Unconsciously, Sarah snuggled closer to John, as he did to her. They fell asleep in each other's arms, for once without any fear of jets or reprisals.

John Munch awoke the next morning, turned off the alarm and dressed in his suit from the previous day. He wasn't worried as he made coffee and breakfast in the kitchen, because he had a razor and extra ties in his locker at work. That was one advantage of always wearing dark suits – they kept secrets well.

Sarah, still clad in her pajamas, crutched her way into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee.

"Morning, sweetie," he said, taking the cup from her and setting it on the kitchen table near him.

"Thanks, honey. Poured coffee from habit, then remembered the crutches," she said, a bit embarrassed. He got the half and half out of the refrigerator and added it to her coffee, along with Sweet n' Low. "You know me well." She had found the glasses case with her refurbished Transitions and finally saw him clearly for the first time. _My_ _God, he's so damned handsome,_ she thought. _He's even better looking than my ex-husband and Stranahan, and neither of them were slouches._

They sat quietly and shared the morning edition of the _Times_, and listened to the latest news on the small kitchen TV at the same time. Like her, he could take in a wide variety of information from many sources all at once, then condense them down into what passed as the media's version of the truth. After some time, she said tentatively, "Sweetheart?"

"Yes?" he answered, as he put down the paper. He believed in giving people his full attention; papers and television weren't as important as flesh and blood relationships.

"I owe you so much…" she began.

"No, you don't – it's equal." He took her hand in his. "It all balances out."

"At least let me pay you for my glasses and all the groceries?"

He deliberated carefully for a long moment. "I'll let you pay me for your glasses – but not for the groceries, since they're as much for my benefit as for yours." He thought her glasses looked rather nice, the small oval frames didn't overwhelm her face in the slightest. "Now that you can truly see me, are you disappointed?" He grinned.

"You're even hotter now than before."

"That concussion must still be bothering you," he said, smiling softly.

"Nope, even the headaches are gone," she retorted. "Face it, detective, you're as handsome as they get. At least to me." She looked down into her coffee cup. "I do have to warn you, though, I can be the jealous type."

"I would expect nothing less from a 'tigress'," he said. He took his cup and dishes to the sink, refilled her coffee cup and then walked out to the dining room. She got up to see him off. He put on his gun belt and badge, checked his Glock and holstered it. "Time to get to work. Walter Chen will be by to scan everything around 11:00 a.m. or so. Don't forget to give him access to your laptop, too. Okay?"

"Okay. If he finds anything, will he take care of it?"

"He will. He's the best at TARU. You'll see why when you meet him." He hesitated. Everything in him wanted to stay, but work was calling and he had to go.

"John…I'm glad you stayed last night." She looked deep into his eyes. "I'll miss you today."

"I'll miss you, too. Call you later, sweetie. Keep your cell phone with you." He kissed her and they clasped hands for a moment. "Sarah, rest for me today, please? As much as you possibly can?"

"I will." She saw the look. "I promise." He turned to leave. "Love you, John." He

turned back and they exchanged a lengthy embrace. "Have a safe shift." Hearing her tone made it that much harder to leave. None of his ex-wives had ever wished him a 'safe shift.' Maybe she was right about cops dating cops.

"Love you, too." He kissed her once more, leisurely. With that, he was gone and she immediately ached from his absence.

Chapter Eighteen: The Plan 

It was 12:40 p.m. and John Munch's stomach was growling so loud, his coworkers could hear it.

"Damn, John," Olivia teased, "Don't you ever eat?" She was spooning up some yogurt at the time.

"Had breakfast, but that was hours ago," he admitted. "I sent Cassidy off forty-five minutes ago, but he's probably still trying to coax some McDonald's cashier out of a picture-menu," he said mischievously. "By the way, where's your lunch partner?" He was surprised they weren't desk-to-desk, doing their ubiquitous sandwich trade-off. "Oh, yeah… He's testifying in the Olivetti rape and murder case, isn't he?"

"That's the one," she said, pitching her yogurt container into the wastebasket. "I'm still hungry. You wouldn't be in the mood for a dog or two, would you?"

"Depends," he said neutrally. "My place is pretty small for pets and I'd have to fork over a hefty deposit to my landlady."

"Jerk!" she shot back, laughing. "Get your sorry backside away from that desk and let's go feed that monster in your stomach, before it renders us all deaf. I'll even buy."

"Dogs sound pretty good…and maybe a pretzel, too." He got his coat on, she already had hers on and they headed out. "Let's go to the cart next to the park, if you don't mind."

"Any special reason? Staking someone out?" She remembered he usually liked Rueben's Red Hots or the Vienna Dogs cart nearer the station, so he could work through lunch.

"Something I'd like to talk with you about, but I need to swear you to secrecy," he explained. "The park is a good place to talk while we eat."

"'Swear me to secrecy?'" she asked. "John, what's going on? And why do I have the feeling you waited until Elliot was away for this conversation?"

"I didn't 'wait until he was away,' it's just a touchy subject with him and I want us both to be out of the house to get your opinion on something. Friend to friend. It doesn't mean I'm less friends with Elliot," he said adamantly, "but he does have some bias about the issue."

"What 'issue' would that be?" she asked, curious.

"Sarah Zelman."

"Oh, boy…" Benson wondered if she should get George Huang in as her proxy for this conversation. Or, maybe John had decided to get the female perspective for a change, instead of his habit of keeping his own counsel.

They'd been walking as they talked and placed their order at the cart. Before Olivia could pay, John had already flipped out a twenty. "Consider it a consulting fee," he quipped.

"Thank you, John. In case you forgot, _I_ invited _you_."

He waved it off amiably. "My treat. Let's head for that secluded bench. Pay no attention to the paranoid detective behind the darkening glasses."

They walked in silence, the dogs warm in a bag, their drinks in hand. "If this is some cloak and dagger stuff, just tell me," Olivia asserted. "You don't have to be so damned secretive. We've known each other forever."

"Which is why I've come to you," he admitted, brushing off the bench with his gloved hand. "Have a seat." He took off his gloves, pocketed them and dug into the bag, handing off her chili cheese dog. His drink was perched next to him on the bench.

"Cassidy," she groused.

"What about him?" John asked, "Aside from the painfully over-obvious?"

"This has nothing to do with him? You're not afraid Cassidy will try and ingratiate himself into your lunches with Sarah later on, to get any gossip he can?" She bit into her chili cheese dog and almost moaned in pleasure. "God, I'd almost forgotten how good these things are."

"This has _nothing_ to do with Brian," he said. "Stop trying to ruin my appetite. The very mention of his name makes me want a Tums."

They looked at each other and traded a look that could have killed Brian. The honeymoon was definitely over between Munch and his current partner.

"Here's the situation in a nutshell," he began, trying to keep his voice low and even. "Sarah was just phased-out by the Bureau and – "

"_She **what**?"_ Olivia couldn't believe what she heard. "With all those successful collars, everything she's done – almost getting killed, and they _fired_ her?" She was incensed. John had been feeding Liv bits and pieces of the situation as everything had shaken out. They were close friends and he didn't have anyone else who really understood what it meant for Zelman to be forced into retirement the way in which she had been. Cragen would have understood, but he didn't feel right going to his captain with his personal problems. Certainly not yet.

John, between bites of two mustard dogs, spilled the entire situation from start to finish. "And now she's being courted by the C.I.A., I discovered yesterday. Where there's one, there are always others," he said sourly.

"Next, she'll probably hear from the Secret Service and then from the U.S. Marshals Service – which gets her in close with Danny Stranahan again," he continued. He rolled a napkin into a ball and shot it perfectly into the trashcan. "I heard the tone in Stranahan's voice and I'm no idiot. He's going to try and lure her back if he gets the chance. Even a uni rookie would have been able to hear it in his voice."

He stared out into the park and Olivia put her hand on his shoulder. "John… Look, judging objectively by everything you've said, Sarah loves _you_. Stranahan has no hold on her anymore. I get the feeling maybe he never _really_ did. Or she would have jumped at the chance to be back with him by now. Instead, she loves _you_. You can't forget that – after all, he wasn't even on her emergency contact list. You said it was her sister and a gal pal in the Midwest. "

"The wrench in the works is that she's vulnerable right now, Liv. I won't let him have her back, and I _will_ fight to keep her. It's made me realize that I never wanted to fight for my ex-wives, any of them. They could leave and I'd pick up the pieces and go on, but I adore Sarah. What we have is very real and…" he hesitated, putting his head down so Benson couldn't see his eyes or expression.

"And?" her tone softened.

He sighed and looked into the distance – the 100-yard stare. "It pains me no end to admit this, but I'm in over my head. And I don't know what to do to keep her. I just know that if she goes away, it'll be couch time with Huang for the rest of my wretched life…willingly."

Olivia stifled a gasp with another bite of chili cheese dog. Benson was seeing a side of her friend, which had never surfaced before.

"I will win her and _keep_ her, no matter what the hell he does. But I need to figure out how to go about it – **without** a wedding ring."

"You mean she's not next-wife material?" Livvy teased.

"Liv, I'd gladly spend the rest of my life with her, but she's not into marriage," he explained. "She's into serial monogamy, which is fine by me. But I don't think she'd marry someone who's struck out as many times as I have."

"Thought you said she'd struck out once already," she said. "She's holding you to some kind of double-standard here?"

"Not at all…" he replied quickly. "For the first time, I'm being loved unconditionally. It's…a strange, yet liberating, sensation. I never got that from my family or any of my wives." He took a long pull from his iced tea. "I haven't had the sensation before. Someone not wanting anything from me, but willing to give their heart to me. It's not just gratitude, either, over what happened at the Towers."

"Welcome to the world that Elliot and I share," Olivia said simply. "I love him for what he is, what he isn't and everything in between."

"I see it in your eyes every day – both of you," he said softly. "It kills me to think she probably loved Stranahan that way, too," he said. "At least for a while."

"It's a special person who has that capability, John." Olivia considered this, watching the kids play in the park, as nannies gossiped about their employers and soccer moms coached their kids. "You brought me here to find out what I think, right?"

"Yes, whether it's good or bad," he said simply. "It's time I did something… Even "Brian Big Mouth" has seen it written all over my face, and I usually hide things a hell of a lot better than this." _Where was his mask when he needed it so badly?_ he wondered.

Benson placed her hand lightly on his shoulder for a moment. "John, here's what I think: You're looking for a battle which may not even happen," she said softly. "But in case Stranahan is planning to swoop in at the last minute with an offer from the Marshals Service, we need to be ready for it. What can I do to help you…to help Sarah?" They sat and thought about it for a few minutes and then Benson slapped him lightly on the arm. "I know _exactly_ what we're going to do," she said, grinning. "Don't you worry about a thing."

"What _are_ we going to do?" He heard the tone in her voice and looked at her through the top of his Transitions. "You have something up your sleeve. And, by the way, a drop of chili on your chin."

"Ooooops," she said, taking it off with a napkin. "Thanks."

"And now, for this idea – "

"You don't need to know – that way, it's honestly 100 _my_ idea," she said brightly. "Just be sure you come in a half-hour late the rest of the week, that's all I ask."

"Should I thank you now, or wait and see if I have a job at the end of the week when I keep coming in late?"

"It'll be fine, John, we're all on flex-time so simply work a half-hour later the rest of the week," she said. "Trust me." She finished her chili cheese dog and threw away the trash. "Now let's get back to work – and not a word about this conversation to Elliot, okay?"

"Wait, I thought _I_ was supposed to say that," he said. They looked at each other and he smiled, hopeful she would know how to salvage everything as it threatened to spin out of his control. "Olivia?"

"John?"

"Thank you."

"Anytime, John…anytime." She gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Now let's go get some work done. And remember – half an hour late, until you hear otherwise."

"Got it." In an odd way, he felt better already.

"Mornin,' Cap," Olivia said brightly, hanging up her jacket.

He'd seen her happy before, many times, but this was _especially_ happy. Something was up. She'd probably spent the night with Elliot, but pushed their personal lives from his mind. That was their business, as long as it didn't affect his precinct.

"Good morning, Benson," he replied. "You win the lottery or something?" He poured them both a cup of coffee. Munch was running late and someone had to make coffee; he decided to save the crew from a pot of sludge and do the honors himself.

"I didn't win the lottery," she said lightly, "but you did."

He took a sip of coffee, then looked up perplexed. "How do you figure?"

"Mind if we talk about this in your office?" She'd brought in his favorite pastries, raspberry bear claws. "Got a fresh bear claw to go with that coffee, if you're interested."

"Now you've got my full attention," he grinned. "After you."

She laid a napkin on the only area of his desk not covered by papers. "One bear claw. One solution to a problem," she added, sitting down in front of him.

"I didn't know we had a problem," he said cautiously. He bit into the bear claw and she saw bliss on his face for the first time in months. "Damn, detective, you could get busted for bribery doing this," he joked. "So, tell me the problem…and your solution."

"I'll get right to the point," she asserted. "You know all about Munch and Special Agent Zelman, from the FBI." She studied his face.

"I do. Go on." His face went intentionally blank like it did when he saw she and Elliot crossed the line. He took another sip of coffee. "And?"

"And she's been kicked loose from the Bureau. Fired, basically, but with a bennies package anyone would kill for – and they've got her on a string in case they want her to 'consult.'"

"Good for her, she deserves a great bennies pack, after what she's been through. She…" It penetrated his pastry bliss and hit him. _Hard_. "Wait a minute, they _fired_ her? _On what grounds?"_ He was starting to sound irritated. _Very_ irritated. Benson had counted on that reaction.

"Some bull about 'not having a place for her,'" Olivia explained, a pained look on her delicate features. "They told her she could work for any other law enforcement agency she wanted to, and all of a sudden she's being courted by everyone from the Secret Service to the C.I.A."

"I read her jacket," he admitted. "That doesn't shock me. They'd be lucky to have a profiler with as much weapons forensics as she has experience in."

Olivia Benson leveled her gaze at Don Cragen. "Don," she said softly, "she told Munch she doesn't want another government job. She said she's going to apply for the NYPD."

"Liv, are you aware of what you're asking me to do here?"

"Yes," she said simply. "I'm asking you to hire us a profiler so we can get a higher solve ratio, get more work done expeditiously, and do it in fewer hours. Saves you overtime, gives us all a life – and it puts her to work with the skills she wants to use again. She has the security clearance that we need, and we wouldn't have to wait for Dr. Huang to be available for us, and -- "

"And you want me to get her in here, before some other agency steals her from John."

"Yes," she admitted. "Everyone wins. We need her; she needs us. Do this for the sake of the 16th, if nothing else."

"That's an extremely compelling argument, Olivia, but I don't want to get involved in John's private life. You already know how I feel about you and Elliot," he reminded her.

"All I'm asking is that you consider it, Captain," she said. "Please." She took a long sip of coffee as he bit into his bear claw again. "This would be a boon for the precinct – having our own profiler. Think about that, too. Status. Efficiency. The ability to know that you lured her away from the Feds."

"But will she stay? I can't match what the Feds paid her. I'm not into this for the short-term, Liv."

"She'll stay. And if you think FBI agents make a lot of money, you're wrong. I checked to see what her rate and rank gave her access to, and this is almost the same when you count in a few hours of overtime."

"Fine, we can make it work as far as pay is concerned," he conceded. "But I'm still not convinced. She'll only stay as long as John does."

"If we treat her well, John won't matter in this as much as you think," she reasoned. "If you haven't already made up your mind about our second head-count, call her in," she urged. "If you like what you hear, hire her for _all_ our sakes, not just for John." She handed him the bag with the second bear claw in it. "Think about it?"

"I'll give it my full consideration – but no guarantees."

"That's all I ask," Olivia said brightly.

"The promise of status and bear claws…you sure know how to win a guy over," he teased.

"Well, she's willing to work hard. Yes, it _might_ be a slight pay cut from the Bureau, but she'd be willing to take it, I'd bet. Especially if she started out with a gold badge."

"She wouldn't start out with less," he said, "that's for certain." He looked down at the jackets on his desk. No one had really impressed him; some were rejects from other precincts, some were so new they had to do their time as unies first, some were just plain wrong…and here was a high-profile Fed who had so much to offer them all."

Olivia Benson stopped, her hand on the doorknob. "Tell me what you're thinking." She turned and fixed him with a look.

He sighed and looked up at her. "That I trust your judgment. I'll call her and try to get her in here as soon as she's physically able. In the meantime, run her jacket for me in case there are any updates, would you?"

She grinned. "Already have. It's on my desk… I'll get it now."

_Damned if she didn't have this planned from the get-go,_ Cragen thought, a wry smile on his thoughtful features.

Chapter Nineteen: Secrets 

"Munch, my office, please," Captain Cragen said, before the detective could even take off his coat. "Now."

_Yea, Olivia, what hell hath you brought down upon my tortured soul?_ he wondered, following Cragen into his office. "Shall I close the door?"

"Yes, please."

"Did I do something wrong, officer?" Munch asked dryly, trying for humor and failing.

"No, you didn't do anything wrong," Cragen said, allowing himself a slight smile at the traffic cop reference. "But I could use Sarah Zelman's home phone number."

"Sorry, Cap," Munch said, "you're a little older than her 'dating demographic' and she's…uh…already spoken for." He flipped out one of his department-issue business cards and wrote Zelman's home number on the back. "Am I allowed to ask?"

"No, John," he said amiably, "you're _not_. It's between she and I this time."

"Well, my birthday has passed, but if you're both trying to decide what to get me for Hanukkah, another tie would be fine."

"Stop practicing your stand-up routine on me and go bust some perps, would you?" he asked.

"Not before I tell you about the droplet of raspberry jelly on _your_ tie," he said, leaving.

"Damn it… I should have known that second bear claw was going to be nothing but trouble. Olivia's been bribing me again." He watched Munch's eyebrows lift a bit higher than usual. "You'd love to know, John, but because you're such a funnyman this morning, you get to suffer now." He cleared his throat purposefully. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get some work done – and so do you." Don Cragen knew his people well; how to motivate them and especially how to bring them back into line.

Munch left Cragen's office, wondering what Olivia had said and why Don would be calling Sarah.

He hung up his coat and poured a cup of water, dropping in a tea bag. _Unless…_ He reached for his cell phone and thought better of it. The computer was calling, reports were waiting and he was trying to keep his rep clean as a whistle, considering everything going on with Sarah. He looked to Olivia and she winked. It didn't help.

He settled down to work, as the request from Cragen poked at his mind like a sharpened stick.

Three o'clock came and the house phone rang at Sarah Zelman's. Her sister answered, but quickly passed off the phone to Sarah because Carolyn was in the midst of cutting an onion into tiny slivers, while peanut oil superheated in a Dutch oven on the stove.

"Hello. Zelman here," she said, wondering who on earth had her home phone number that Carolyn didn't recognize on Caller I.D.

"Ms. Zelman, this is Don Cragen, captain of the NYPD's 16th precinct." For an instant, her blood ran cold. _Oh my God…John._ She quickly recovered, realizing they'd send a couple of unies to the door with a pastor, God forbid anything bad had happened. "I understand you're still recuperating from some pretty serious injuries, but I was wondering if there was any way we could talk soon."

"It would be my pleasure," she said truthfully. "We could handle it by phone, or I guess I could get a taxi and come see you," she offered. "How soon would you like to talk, Captain?"

"I know this is very short notice, but I'd be happy to send a car for you," he offered.

"Oh, I'm not really in shape or appearance for any kind of interview…if that's what you had in mind," she explained. "I could pull myself together, but really wouldn't want your team to see me like this."

'_Like this,'_ he thought. _She doesn't want anyone to see her on crutches with a neck brace. _"How about this? Are you at all familiar with the coffee shop diagonally across from the 16th?"

"Sure. They have the best pies on earth," she said lightly.

"We could talk there, if you have no objections."

"Sounds great. When?"

"Can I have John pick you up in half an hour?"

"John Munch? Of course." She thought for a moment. "You've undoubtedly run my jacket. Need me to bring anything?"

"Just you and an appetite for apple pie and coffee," he said warmly. "Oh, and Ms. Zelman, no word about any specifics to Detective Munch, please. He's to transport you and that's _all_."

"Agreed. See you then. Looking forward to it."

Carolyn had burned the onions into black shards, as was called for in Chicken Paprikas, added a large can of chopped tomatoes, a thinly-sliced green pepper and a whole chicken. She'd covered it with the Dutch oven's lid and the entire apartment smelled of childhood: burned onions and chicken broth.

"Can you help me change," Sarah asked, "without making me smell like onions?"

"Sure can," her sister replied. "What's up?"

"John's boss wants to talk to me…about a job." She could feel her heart leap in her chest at the thought of being back on the streets – of being useful again. "John's going to pick me up in thirty minutes and drop me off at a coffee shop near the station. That's where I meet his captain."

"Oh, Sis… This is getting serious. They want you before the Feds get you."

"Yep." She took a deep breath, trying to get her heart rate down. "They're moving fast; I haven't even recovered yet."

"Maybe they'll partner you with John," she offered.

"Doubtful. He has a partner," she said. "But being in the same precinct would be plenty handy," she said, grinning. "Now, let's get me changed – and quick."

Twenty-eight minutes later, a Crown Victoria eased into the loading and unloading zone in front of Zelman's building. John hit the lights to strobe and got out to help her in, with Charlie holding the door. "Where are you off to today, missy?" he asked, curious.

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to _kill_ you," she joked. "And great doormen are getting harder and harder to find." She smiled and he closed the door as John got in and glided the Crown Vic into traffic.

She saw the look on John's face and wasn't sure what to make of it. "Cragen swore me to silence."

"Lot of that going around these days, I guess," he replied. "He threatened me with a ten-day rip if I grilled you, either before or after the meeting." He sighed. "So much for dinner conversation tonight at your place."

"Nice weather we're having," she said. They looked at each other and rolled their eyes. "A ten-day rip is pretty extreme. Now I really am wondering what's up."

"You're about to find out. And I'm not," he groused.

"Try not to let it get to you, John." She looked down the block they were on. "Is that the place?"

"It is. I'll get parked and help you out, then he'll call me when you're finished," he explained. "Afterward, I get to take you home and my day is done."

"Dinner will be ready by then," she said softly. "Carolyn's cooking and it's really a nice dish. You'll like it. I'll pour you a glass of wine and we'll forget about all this."

He sighed. "Think so, huh?"

"At least I will have tried," she said tersely, as he pulled to the curb and hit the lights again. He hurried out to help her and she watched as Cragen got up from the waiting area and held the door for her. His captain smiled and shook her hand. Good signs, at least.

She didn't dare look back at John as he got back into the car and left. For better or worse, she was on her own with his boss. It was, in a word, _surreal_.

"Does the smoke detector go off when you burn the onions for this?" John asked, a bit mellower after his second glass of Chardonnay. "Because the blackened onions are the key to it all, right?"

"Right," Carolyn said, clearing the table. "And if you're careful, you can do it without giving the smoke detector fits. The rest of it is really easy. After the chicken cooks, you remove it and de-bone it, add the meat back into the Dutch oven and add a pint of sour cream. Stir it all together and then serve it over rice, sprinkling the top with paprika. Nice and easy."

John noticed Sarah only had rice, skipped the wine and didn't want dessert. "Stomach still touchy or did you eat greasy café food, while you were with Cragen?"

"Had a piece of pie and coffee. Stomach's a mess right now, but it'll be okay soon," she said. He let out a dissatisfied sigh. "John, I promise I'll let you know when you need to worry. Really."

They were both thinking of the threat of a ten-day rip, when John's cell phone rang.

"Munch," he answered. He cocked his head back. "Olivia… You didn't hear? I was **ordered** not to talk about it." He paused. "Yes, he did say a _ten-day_ rip. We'll have to wait and see." He sighed. "I have no idea." He nodded. "You're probably right, but above all – we did _not_ have this conversation. Clear on that? _Good."_ He smiled wryly. "Give Elliot my regards." A pause. "Yeah, I'm as bad as they come. 'Night."

"Olivia on a fishing expedition?" Sarah asked.

"Deep sea," he admitted. "She's using 100-pound test line, too."

Sarah, who'd fished with the ex-husband, caught the reference and giggled.

Carolyn made herself scarce, going into the den to cross stitch and watch television, which she seemed to do simultaneously. She glanced out into the dining room and saw John and Sarah talking with their heads together, almost across the table. They got up shortly thereafter and went into the master bedroom. She hoped he'd stay the night; she was developing a soft spot in her heart for ol' "Badger" and his dark glasses.

Besides, it had been at least a few years since she'd seen her sister so happy.

Chapter Twenty: Cassidy 

Sex crimes were coming in at a slow pace, but the sordid business was steady. It was interspersed with too many funerals to count, each detective keeping their dress blues pressed and in their lockers, along with clean shirts, their medals, a pair of polished shoes and other accoutrements. The twenty-two took over for the sixteenth whenever possible, and vice versa.

Nerves were ragged at the sixteenth; each time a car backfired, one or more of them would jump, as it reminded them of the twenty-one gun salutes they'd heard over and over again. The sound of "Taps" brought Olivia to silent tears.

Sarah had chosen to miss all 29 of her fellow agents' funerals, preferring to remember them as they had been before the attack. She'd talked it over at length with George Huang and he'd agreed. He went in her proxy, sadly noting that all the ceremonies were closed caskets – and not merely because each had been draped in the United States flag.

Dr. Huang was busy counseling each of the crew at the sixteenth and he knew he'd have his hands full with Munch, despite the excellent progress he was having with everyone else. Last but certainly not least, the detective was called in the next morning to take his place in Huang's office.

"I'm good, doctor, no problems," he lied into the phone. "If I have a problem, I'll – "

"You'll get your ass up there right now, Munch," Cragen interrupted, "or get a rip. Now _go_."

"Gee, my schedule seems to have suddenly opened up," he said. "I'll be right there." He saw his captain's 'that's more like it' look and took his suit jacket from where it hung near his desk. "Back as soon as he'll let me," John said. "Could be an hour, could be a 72-hour detention," he added sarcastically.

"I'm begging you to be truthful and not give him any shit, John," Don said, just loud enough for the detective to hear. "You need this, whether you want to go or not."

"Understood," he said gently. "I'll try to go easy on the hired help."

"You do that. And take all the time you need. Got it?"

"Got it." He shrugged into his jacket, straightened his tie and headed upstairs to the psychological gallows.

Fin saw the look on his face and couldn't resist. "Dead dude walkin.'" he chided.

"I'll rise above that, but keep in mind it wouldn't take much for me to trip over that knee immobilizer of yours," he retorted. "I might also be nasty enough to hide your pain pills," he chided.

Cragen was looking for a file and thought it was on Munch's desk; he was busy looking for it when he heard Tutuola continue. His ears perked up…fast.

"Hey, bro -- if you're pissed with anybody, it better be with your little buddy Brian Cassidy," he shot back. He saw Munch's confused expression and explained. "He's got you sleeping with Agent Zelman. It's all over the house," he said quietly. Odafin saw John's mask go up and realized he'd made a _huge_ error in judgment. "Sorry, John – thought you knew," he said, lowering his voice. "I didn't mean anything by it, man, since it's your biz'ness, but he was really running his mouth yesterday before he took off at seven." He watched Munch lean his head back and stiffen up like a statue.

"When I'm back from Huang's office, let's talk, shall we? This is the second time I've heard about my partner's Grand Canyon of a mouth."

"Yeah, but let's bring the Cap in on it, too – this is some serious smack he's spreadin' around. And I heard from Olivia that she's considering going to her union rep with a sexual harassment suit, because Cassidy won't leave her alone."

"Thanks for the head's up, bro," John said, giving Fin their special handshake from their homicide days. "Arrange it with Cragen and I'll be there. I've finally had it with that little fuck," he said, only loud enough for Fin to hear.

Or so he thought.

John lived through his hour with Dr. Huang and it had turned out even better than he expected. They discussed his relationship with Sarah, how her PTSD could affect him and what signs to watch for that could indicate he was developing latent PSTD, from having rescued so many from the hell he saw that day.

"Dr. Huang…George, there's just one thing I don't quite 'get,' Munch admitted, seated across from his friend and advisor.

"What is that, John?"

"Why I _like_ Sarah so much," he said simply. "I know we were pushed into an absolutely hellish situation initially, and in doing my job I wanted to make sure she would be okay. I've even felt the urge to get close to SVU victims before, but this…" he looked toward the ceiling as if he could pull down the exact words he was looking for. He looked back to Huang and took off his glasses, pocketing them. "This is so different. I liked her almost immediately and not just because she's also a cop and a calm one, as well. But then we accelerated to genuinely loving each other in almost zero-to-sixty seconds."

"Did that happen with your ex-wives?"

"Never; as much as I'd wanted it to," he conceded. "They were…conquests. It was every bit about the thrill of the hunt and all the usual testosterone-fueled bullshit. I may have loved them each at one time, but it didn't start out as liking them. There was no foundation. With Sarah," he continued, "I have this feeling of being into it for the long-term. Maybe permanently, who knows?"

"You _know_ what your problem is, John," he said evenly. "I don't have to tell you."

"I was denied the hunt? I didn't need the trophy? What?"

"You've finally matured into a more complete person," he said. "You didn't need to 'hunt' Sarah because she was there, and genuinely needed you on both the physical and psychological levels. And you don't need her as a trophy, because you already recognize how unique and special she is to you," he explained. "You're experiencing genuine love, perhaps for the first time ever."

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"Because Don Cragen's little brother is finally growing up."

"Gee, thanks, doc," he shot back. Munch stood, shaking hands with Huang. "You know how much I hate it when you're right." He grinned. He put his glasses back on as well.

"You'll get over it," he quipped. "Or, it'll simply do further damage to your psyche and you'll be back." He laughed softly. "Get out of here, John, and let me deal with my paperwork – or _I'll_ go crazy."

He genuinely liked George Huang and considered him a good friend, so it was easier for him to open up and genuinely talk about the disaster, rather than his dodges of one-liners and questions he reserved for other 'shrinks.'

He wanted to ask him about how best to handle Brian Cassidy, without needing anger management classes. He opted to leave that to a conference with those immediately affected, however. The last thing he wanted to do was think about his current partner, and seeing him, he knew, would set him off.

As he trotted down the stairs back to SVU, he had officially declared Brian's career "D.O.A. – Dead on (his) Arrival."

"Good session?" Cragen inquired.

"Extremely so," Munch said, genuinely glad he'd gone. "Thanks for the push," he said, meaning it.

"You're welcome." Don hesitated for a moment and then said, "I'd like to see you in my office, if you don't mind. Olivia is in there and so is Fin." He paused, "Brian's in there as well. This could get ugly."

John Munch's good mood evaporated like cold water on lava. "Not as ugly as I have in mind," Munch said, swinging the door open and striding in. "You loud mouth little bastard," he said to Cassidy, his stare going straight through him. _"Want to see me go bad cop on your scrawny ass?"_ He started for him and Fin damned the leg brace that prevented him from getting up and restraining his friend. Olivia threw her full body weight against Munch and it barely slowed him. He gently helped Liv back to her seat.

"**JOHN!**" Cragen yelled. "Sit down, now!"

He sat down directly in back of Cassidy, an intimidation tactic he'd learned long ago. "Who wants to start?" Munch asked. "Olivia? Ladies first?"

"Go ahead, Olivia," Cragen prompted.

"I want my union rep in here," Cassidy said.

"Fine, if he's on-site. If not, you're out of luck because we'll proceed without him. You've been written up so much in the past, it won't matter." Cragen dialed and got the rep's voicemail. He left a brief message as Elliot Stabler walked in and took a seat. "Cassidy, let me remind you, this is the third time you're about to get a rip – and this department has a three-strikes policy. You're not just on thin ice, you're on a snowflake heading toward Hell."

Cragen looked over at Stabler. "Elliot, why are you in here?" the captain asked.

"I'm a witness to most of this," he said simply. "I want it on record so someone can substantiate all claims made against Detective Cassidy."

"Good, then I won't need my rep," Brian said.

"_Fuck you,_ you little rat. You're going to need him more than ever, if I can help it."

"Language, Stabler. Don't make me warn you again," Cragen said. "We have a lady present and will try to conduct ourselves as gentlemen."

Over the next hour and fifteen minutes, it all became clear: No one could open their mouth around Brian Cassidy without their words having been distributed almost faster than Internet speed throughout the house. He was guilty of putting his own spin on virtually everything that had happened at the 16th since his arrival.

He had, without proof, given the brass the unshakable impression that Benson and Stabler had been not just sleeping together, but had shared a crib at times. He insisted yesterday's meeting between Cragen and Zelman was solely for the purpose of discussing Munch's relationship with 'a known agent of the FBI, with whom he was having an affair.' He almost got clocked when he insinuated Odafin was hired because he'd blown a meth bust the Feds were working on and _had_ to transfer to SVU.

Cragen listened to every rumor and especially to every rebuttal. It was all carefully logged by Fin, who could write as fast or faster than most people could talk.

Olivia, should she decide to, could still file a civil suit against Cassidy for sexual harassment. She put on a good act of being willing to follow through, because she wanted to hurt him. Hurt Brian so badly his tiny balls would twist, for trying to destroy what she had with Elliot. Humiliate him for each time she was hit upon by his puppy eyes and stinking pick-up lines. She dumped every gift he had ever given her or left on her desk into his lap, in front of Cragen and everyone. "Keep your cheap trash," she snapped. _"And if you **ever** tell anyone you and I are an item again, I'll chop you off at the knees so fast you have no idea!"_

Fin was looking forward to rehabbing his knee, so he could wipe the basketball court with him. Cassidy wouldn't dare refuse the invitation to a match. Fin might even invite a few of his buddies to play, to even things up a bit.

Munch, the angriest of all, sat in stony silence for the longest time and then – to the utter shock of everyone present, especially Cassidy – grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him off the ground with a teeth-shaking yank. "Let me tell you something, you worthless bastard," he began, not caring if it meant a long rip or even his badge, "don't you ever – **_ever_** – get into my _personal_ life again, and put your sickening little spin on it! Do you understand me?" He slammed Cassidy's back against the wall and dropped him, the man's legs giving out as he hit the floor. Cragen didn't say a word. No one did. _No one dared._

Cassidy got to his feet and tried his level best to apologize, but it was no use. Somehow, he had managed to undermine the trust of an entire department, in record time.

Every one of his compatriots reminded him of such. All because he just craved a little more excitement in his life and didn't think embellishments would do any harm. He wasn't guilty of bad judgment, he was guilty of possessing no judgment at all. If he thought it, it went straight from brain to lips with not much in between. Cassidy thought he had a great sense of humor, but his remarks always hit an off-note, sounding more like harassment than levity.

Don Cragen had done Brian's father a favor by allowing his son to transfer to Sex Crimes and lived to regret it.

The world as Brian Cassidy had seen it was a very different place from the reality of police work, and to a large extent, life at the 16th. His biggest mistake was his open love for Olivia Benson, which would be tough to shake. She sat staring at him now, with what could easily be construed as open hatred.

He hadn't meant to cause such turmoil, but with all the gossip that floated around the precinct anyway, what was the harm? It was something he was about to discover.

When the carnage was over, Brian Cassidy was busted down to a silver badge – the equivalent of a rookie detective, given a fourteen-day rip and put on 90 days' probation. It was like being a rookie all over again. He was also stuck behind a desk, because Munch made it infinitely clear he'd rather work cases alone than with a liability incapable of watching his back. And his paperwork would be carefully reviewed for optimum objectivity.

Brian Cassidy left the office relieved just to have a job. If he'd been fired, what they'd done to him in the captain's office would never compare to what his father – a retired police chief – would do to him _and_ his inheritance. He had not only disgraced the 16th, he had disgraced himself and his family, most of whom were police officers.

The one-six would quickly recover, but everyone knew Cassidy's career never would. That bothered none of them in the slightest.

Chapter Twenty-One: Firing Line 

Cassidy had served his two-week rip and things had calmed down a bit at the 16th precinct. Everyone had done fine without him, even if it did mean a bit of additional paperwork and an hour or two extra here and there.

Munch had settled into a new routine as well, coming in a bit earlier and leaving at a time when human beings were still awake and alive. His coworkers couldn't figure out if it was his relationship with Zelman that was the cause, or because he was getting home cooking on a consistent basis. Or maybe a bit of both.

Olivia envied him, because he brought in leftovers for lunch and it made the break room smell less like burned micro waved popcorn and more like home. To add insult to injury, he could eat as much of anything he wanted and not gain an ounce.

Benson saw him in the break room and sat down beside him. "How's your friend? Is she feeling better?"

"Very much so," he replied, digging into a piece of meatloaf accompanied by mashed potatoes and sugar snap peas. "Thanks for asking." He was still somewhat tight-lipped about it all, but she was secretly thrilled he was less like an undertaker, no offense to his brother, but more like a real person.

"She…uh…say what her plans are?" Olivia inquired discreetly.

Much looked at her and raised his eyebrows. "You just won't be content until _I _get a rip, will you?" He whistled a bit of something vaguely classical and she grinned.

"You were a sadist in a previous lifetime, you know," she said, half-joking.

"I'm one in this lifetime, too," he retorted, "because you're not getting anything from me until it's absolutely necessary."

John Munch, Olivia Benson discovered that day, had a very evil laugh.

"Must feel pretty good to be out of the leg brace and cervical collar," Munch said, getting Sarah her jacket.

"You have no idea," she admitted. "I feel like a new person, even though it's a very sore new person." She allowed John to help her into her jacket and wondered what he had in mind. "What's up?"

"You'll need this," he said, giving her back her gun, belt, I.D. and badge. "We, my dear one, are headed for the firing range. You're about to get back in practice." He watched as her eyes lit up.

"Really?"

"Yes, indeed. It's just what Doctor Munch ordered, now that you're almost recovered."

"Hey, John."

"Sam, how's it going?" Munch flashed his badge at the 16th and signed his friend in as a visitor. The desk sergeant noticed the FBI badge and flashed his best smile.

"If there's anything I can do for you, Agent Zelman – " She smiled and gave him a nod.

"Thanks, Sammy, but I've got it all under control," Munch asserted. "We're heading for the firing range. Is the range master in?"

"As always. I think he sleeps down there."

"Good. Call down for us and see if lanes three and four are open, would you? Let him know we're on our way down." He flashed a smile at the sergeant and off they went down the stairs. "We're going to get you back in 'perfect form,' just as you wanted."

"Thank you, John," she said, her hand going by reflex to her Glock.

They took hearing protection from the rack and put it on, before going through the first door of the airlock. Once the first door was closed, they went into the range through a second door, the airlock keeping lead dust out of the central heat and air of the main building.

Munch went to lane number three. He motioned to Zelman to stand behind him, as he put up a smaller version of the standard torso target. He flipped the switch to 'forward' and sent it flying on its cable several yards away to the white line. He moved out of the way. "Remove your weapon and prepare it for firing," he said, as an instructor would.

She took her Glock out of its soft carry bag and loaded a clip from her ammo case. "Prepared." She was all business now. He was a cop. She was a cop. He was, as far as she was concerned, her instructor.

"Ready?"

"Yes, sir." She took a deep breath. "My hands…they're trembling," she said softly. She felt ashamed. "This is embarrassing. I don't have enough strength in my wrist to pull back and load the first round." She felt like an idiot, but it was merely a strength issue from muscles not used in weeks. Her palms were sweating, too, which didn't help.

He stepped up and pulled back on the upper portion of her gun, then hit the release. "Your wrists will get strong enough soon… Don't let this fluster you."

"Thanks. I'll use an extra drop of oil next time I clean it, so the action's easier."

"Good idea." He stepped behind her and placed his arms and hands in line over hers, not only to make sure her form was perfect but to calm her. "Zelman," he said softly in her ear, "_relax_. Relax your stance and your grip on your piece." He could feel her heart beating against him. She was beyond nervous; she was scared but would die before she'd admit as much. "It's going to all come flooding back," he assured her. "Be ready for it and roll with it. Let it flow when it happens. Most importantly, keep your head up. Got it?"

"Yes," her voice was more authoritative than he'd ever heard it before.

"It's only because you've been injured and you're a little out of practice," he assured her. "It's only temporary." He gently kicked her feet apart, and she instinctively took the FBI firing range stance. He backed away from her, leaving her in position. "Is your weapon loaded?"

"Yes."

"Is your weapon ready to fire?"

"Yes, sir."

He watched the paper target flutter ever so slightly in the air, on the thin wire. "Fire upon my command."

She took a deep breath, remembered the yoga breathing that had always helped her accuracy and nodded.

"Keep your head up, like I said," he reminded her, watching her sight the target. "Zelman, prepare to fire."

"Yes, sir." _Breathe, Zelman,_ she thought, _breathe…_

"Fire when ready."

She was holding the gun in a triangular position, both hands folded around it. She pulled the five and a half pounds of pressure against the trigger and felt the ordnance leave the gun as she saw the flash. The recoil brought her arms up a couple of inches and she resumed her stance, then fired again, with more confidence and considerably less recoil distortion.

"Remember to breathe, Zelman," Munch coached. "Don't tense up. Like I said, just let it flow. You can do this." She nodded, taking another deep breath. She fired again and again, over and over, until she'd emptied the clip.

Munch hit the button to return the target and he was surprised at her accuracy, all things considered. "Not bad," he admitted. "Targets are over here. Just clip a new one on, whenever you need it. Hit this switch, 'forward,' to send out the target and the 'reverse' switch to return it to you." He motioned to the lane next to hers. "I'll be right over here if you need me. Just remember – above all, keep your head up and _relax_."

She put up another target, feeling better now that she had her Glock in hand once more. She reloaded and fired using other techniques, until she had practiced them all, both left and right-handed. Some shots to wound, but most to kill.

_She's a machine,_ Munch thought, _shooting like she was born to do it. I wouldn't want to be a perp, but I'd be glad to have her at my back as a partner._ He idly wondered if she'd ever killed someone. If so, she hadn't mentioned it, nor was it noted in her jacket.

She watched John Munch shoot his 9mm Glock for a few moments. He was positively Zen in his technique and when the target zoomed back, she was awed by his accuracy. He could have joined SWAT if he'd chosen them. He wore gloves frequently, especially when he fired his piece; it ensured his palms wouldn't sweat and there would be no G.S.R. on his skin afterward. Sarah was used to washing gunshot residue from her hands, but she considered gloves might be a good habit to get into.

She practiced for another hour alongside John, without let-up. Loading clips was agony for her fingers and thumbs; she'd been in the top 5 of her graduating class at speed-loading a clip, but now she was woefully out of practice. She'd go home, spread an oilcloth on the table and practice loading all 15 of the clips in her ammo case until she was fast again. Right then, her arms ached, her back and shoulders hurt, her wrists burned and her neck muscles stung, but she had nailed the small paper perp with ease, time after time.

Munch pulled out a standard police-issue snub-nosed .38 from his ankle holster. "Now with this, Sarah. It'll be your backup piece, instead of that .22 you used to carry."

She worked for another hour, until her muscles almost shook from the strain. But she was satisfied each time she brought back the target. Breathing heavily, she gave the freshly-loaded piece back to John. "That felt good. Nice to know I can handle my Glock again, as well as an issued aux carry."

"I want you to buy a 9mm Glock, and use that at work instead of the one you have. You're firing .38 caliber ammo, but you'll need the stopping power of a nine-mill piece."

"Field Agents normally didn't carry that much power. Isn't that for the unies and the other departments?"

"No, it's standard for _all_ NYPD departments as well," John explained. "These are very mean streets and we deal with all kinds of perps, Sarah. You need the additional stopping power to be safe." _And to keep your partner safe,_ he thought. "It's heavier, but you'll get used to it."

"I'd qualified with Steve's once," she recalled. "Can I practice with yours now, to get used to the extra weight again?" she asked.

"Sure." He filled another clip, much faster than she could at the moment, and handed her the piece. He clipped up a fresh target – one of his, a small circular one – and sent it out to the white line. "Try it. First a series of single shots, and then I'll have you shoot it as a semi-automatic."

The recoil of the first shot brought her hands up again, but she quickly corrected her stance – dominant foot slightly behind her – and shot again. A kill-shot. She shot over and over until she had emptied the clip, and then gave him the gun for reloading. As a semi-automatic, the nine-mill had a smooth action. He obviously took exceptional care of it, cleaning and oiling it after every session on the range. It was easier to shoot than she anticipated.

He watched her concentration as shell casings flew backward, hitting her face and arms at times. She didn't even flinch, she was so in the moment. John brought the target back and was visibly impressed. "Time to sweep up and go," he said, as they each took a broom and cleaned all their casings to the front of their firing lanes.

John reviewed her targets and let out a low whistle. "Great work, Sarah," he said simply. "I'm proud of you." He smiled.

Her heart froze in her chest. _Those had been the last words Steve DiMarco had ever said to her._ She took a deep breath and nodded her gratitude, when she really wanted to find a corner to curl up in and cry. John studied her face carefully. "It's all going to be okay. Don't worry."

She nodded, her hand once more going to her Glock, when instead she wanted to take his hand in hers. She knew she couldn't reach out to him physically, not there, not then. The toughness she had as a Special Agent would have to serve her again and serve her well.

Her hand rested on her Glock once more, briefly. Like a security blanket, in some ways, but in others a sign of strength and power regained.

Thanks to John Munch and his patience, Sarah Zelman was back in the game.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Headcount 

"Where's Munch?" Cragen asked, seeing his detective's empty desk.

"Oh…yeah," Stabler said. "He mentioned something about his anthrax acting up again and he left." Elliot winked.

Olivia stifled a smile. "Elliot you are so bad, stop it," she chastised.

"Don't tell me he's really off-site without permission," the Captain warned.

"Nope. He's not," Elliot admitted. "He'll be back from the 'reading room' any time now."

"Good. If you don't mind, send him in when he gets back, would you please?"

"Sure will, Cap." He looked up from the file he was working on. "He's not in hot water, is he?"

"Far from it. This is some news I think he'll be happy to hear." Cragen retreated to his office, hoping he was right.

Benson leaned over and whispered to her partner, "I'll bet Sarah Zelman is our addition to head count." She grinned. "That should make Munch absolutely overjoyed."

"You think so?" Stabler asked. "It could go either way… Might bring 'em closer together or it could blow their relationship wide open.

"But I think you're right, because that would account for all the string pulling Cragen did. Getting Fin from Narcotics, that was hard – but luring away a Special Agent being actively courted by the C.I.A.? Now that takes heavy lifting and then some. Of course, we'll have to retrain her _our_ way."

"Quit being so damned biased about FBI agents, Elliot," she warned him. "This is a good opportunity for all of us, so back off for once." She was so pissed she turned her back on him.

"_You_ put the bug in Cragen's knickers, didn't you? Now it all becomes clear," he

asserted. "He was using Huang so much, you found out he wanted his own profiler. Then, Munch mentions the Feds have put Zelman out to pasture before her time," he added.

"No wonder you came in early one morning, before I got here," he accused. "You wanted to sell Cragen on bringing over Zelman, since she technically became a free-agent, although she's officially on retirement," he continued. "You thought Cragen should snap her up, before some bunch like the Marshals or the Secret Service could get their hands on her."

"Actually, you were right the first time, Elliot, she was being courted by the C.I.A. first, so keep your agencies straight," Olivia retorted.

She turned around again, this time to face him, ready for a full-fledged argument. "I won't confirm or deny anything, except that I felt she was treated like _shit_ when she'd done over twenty years of 'exemplary' service," Benson countered.

"Elliot, she was unceremoniously dumped and she deserved a hell of a lot better than that. No one deserved the treatment the FBI doled out to her. The bull about 'we have no place for you now' was just plain crass – the woman could write her own ticket. Would you have wanted to see me treated that way?"

"No, Liv, of course not…" Elliot stammered. Maybe he had been too biased about Munch and his feelings for Zelman. Maybe it truly was about time he changed his attitude, before it came between him and Olivia permanently. Once she got an idea in her head, she was more stubborn than he was – if that were possible.

"This way," she continued, "_we_ have her and no one else does. We score a top-notch profiler and she's also working with John. Unless I'm blind, I see _nothing_ wrong with that." She sighed. _How on earth could her partner, the man she loved without conditions or condemnations, be so totally bull-headed?_

"Wait…wait just a damned minute! What do you mean 'we,' Kemo Sabe?"

"You wanted a full-time profiler, too. Don't you dare deny it, either. Cases are being slowed down and we're swimming in D-D5s and other paperwork because Huang isn't always available and we've been losing momentum. Now that will change. For the better, for once." _And it will give you more time with Kathy,"_ she wanted to add, hurting him for not thinking of John's happinessShe would have gladly taken a bullet to save Stabler's life,but there were times when Elliot's selfish streak was his most unbecoming characteristic.

He sighed, out-argued again and ready to back up his partner's reasoning. "Okay, you got me, guilty on all counts. If anything's said, I'll back you up, Liv." He grinned and got up for coffee. _You know I'll back you up… One glance into those eyes and I always do._ He took her coffee cup, too, so he could refill them both, adding milk and sugar to hers, as she preferred.

An hour later it was still their hot topic. "Cassidy hasn't helped the situation and I want John to have a chance with Sarah," Olivia said sourly.

"Holy crap! Munch really _is_ off his game – this coffee is almost drinkable!" He glared at his coffee mug as if it had personally betrayed him.

Olivia ignored his outburst and continued, "I wish Brian wouldn't have put his own spin on things. Makes it sound like John's headed out for a 'nooner' every day, and we know he's not that kind of guy. Munch is a gentleman and he's also getting us a profiler in the bargain, if this works out.

"Gives us the advantage of being the only SVU to have our own in-house profiler – that's some heavy status – and we still get Dr. Huang when we need him. We should turn Huang loose on Cassidy," Olivia said bitterly. "But I wouldn't be so cruel to the doctor."

"Cassidy's on everyone's shit list," Stabler groused. "The sooner he's out of here, the better for all of us. He's worse than hopeless, he's a liability. Are we even sure he knows how to take the safety off his gun?"

"Don't get me started," Olivia replied. "Rumor has it, Narcotics is about to have their hands full. Serves them right for all the crap they've pulled on us over the years. At least we salvaged Fin and got him here with us. He's a damned good cop, even if we don't always agree on strategy."

"No debate there," Elliot agreed. "The more I work with Fin and get to know him, the more I like him. Of course, it helps he has history with John. Munch and I may not always see eye-to-eye, but he's a very moral guy and I have nothing but respect for him," he said. "Even if he is in love with the enemy." He looked at Liv and grinned.

"Same here," Olivia said with a nod. "I want to see him happy. Like us," she whispered. "And quit using the word 'enemy,' I mean it, Elliot. She's no longer officially FBI, so _shut the hell up_." She elbowed him. Hard.

"Ow! Shhhhh… We're about to get our chance to see how this plays out," he whispered back, as the tall man came into the bullpen. "Hey, John – Cap wants to see ya. Sounds like good news, too. Lucky you."

"Thanks, El." He walked into Cragen's office and closed the door.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Rage 

"Our second addition to head count is someone you know," Cragen started carefully. "It's a recently-retired FBI agent and her name is –"

"_Sarah Zelman."_ Munch felt like a perp had taken a two-by-four to his gut, over and over again. "No, she didn't tell me, so don't even think about giving me that ten-day rip you threatened me with," he said hotly.

"Aren't there _any_ fucking secrets in this whole damned department?" John hadn't had enough rest to be his usual diplomatic self. "When I share something with someone, I expect confidentiality and complete discretion! I wanted Brian Cassidy _fired_ and damned if I won't talk with _my _union rep about all his shit!"

"I think we've more than busted Cassidy for his indiscretions," Cragen said. "John, there still are some secrets safe here," the Captain replied, seeing the lightning in his dark eyes and waiting for the thunder. "I wanted you to hear it from me, about Zelman, before she walked in here."

He scrubbed his face with his hands, almost unable to believe what he just heard. "How could you do this to me, Don? Everyone's probably been having a tremendous laugh at my expense, simply because you had this planned all along and everyone else knows. Do you think I haven't seen the nudges and winks?" He almost spat out the words. The detective paced, nervous for the first time in a long time. "I'm not an idiot!" He was afraid his palms would start to sweat. He'd rather have been on the witness stand than go through this scrutiny of his privacy. _"The ultimate insult is in being the last to know!"_ he almost yelled.

"And you're not! I'm not following, John. What's your problem with this?" Cragen was genuinely confused at Munch's reaction. "I didn't make up my mind until I interviewed her at the coffee shop, then realized she would be a good fit for this precinct.

"I expected it to make you happy – you know, that emotion you rarely show, the one that Dr. Huang keeps telling you is healthy."

"As if you didn't know that hiring Sarah Zelman was going to ruin my semi-wretched existence!" Munch snapped, aware he was once again treading the thin ice of insubordination. "I was trying to convince her to retire…_permanently_.

"Now that you've hired her, you've torpedoed any chance of a relationship between she and I, yet Stabler and Benson get to sit there and trade lunches like a couple of teenagers." He sat down heavily in the chair, facing off with Cragen. "And you're expecting me not to be pissed as hell? News flash – I'm livid! Hire someone else and leave me to whatever happiness I can squeeze out of the remainder of our lives."

"Look, John," he replied evenly, "I'm giving you a head's up, so you won't betray yourself when she walks in tomorrow morning. She's been hired and that's that. I commanded her not to tell you, so it's not like she was hiding anything from you intentionally. She was simply following my orders."

"Is that true?" he asked hotly.

"Do I need her to sign a fucking affidavit for you, John? Or do you want one from me?" Now Cragen was starting to boil.

"Fine," he said. "Fine. At least now I know _she_ can keep a secret."

"I need a profiler for this department, so we can make our goals. Now we have one." He said. "Get used to it." He had to be careful with Munch; it wasn't often he exploded but when he did it was like a volcano's pyroclastic flow. His rage could suffocate the department and bring everything to a dramatic halt in an instant, with a near-silent fallout that could last for weeks. Cragen made sure his voice was even and he maintained eye contact, to keep John from getting even angrier. If that was possible.

Cragen's hand had been forced by both John's actions toward Zelman and the FBI's decision to let her go. If he had to do it all again, he probably would have hauled Munch in and warned him the first time he mentioned her name, but that would have only added water to a grease fire. He was doing the best he could in an extremely awkward situation, but that didn't detract from the fact that he wanted a profiler and now – by the grace of God and the FBI, whom often thought they were God – he had one. The end entirely justified the means. Cragen had no regrets.

Benson and Stabler, neither one of them give a damn about their actions together or their pensions, but you and I do – we have to protect what's rightfully ours, because the future can hurt us. And the union doesn't give a damn, we know that too."

"Yeah, well, it's only because we're not as young as we used to be," he groused. So explain to me, why is this different? You know, I've never been a big fan of double-standards."

"I'm not _saying_ it's different, I'm even willing to turn a semi-blind eye to it, John, but you'd better not get _my_ ass in a sling over it becoming common knowledge outside the house." Munch could tirelessly argue and make point after valid point, wearing Cragen down and making him want to fall completely off the wagon.

"I'll get rid of Brian Cassidy, you can bank on that, mister. But I'm going to be the one to do it. My plans will be followed as I see fit. You got that, John?"

"Yes, sir."

"I mean this, so get it through your conspiracy-theory soaked brain: When you're here, you and Zelman are _partners_. What you do on your own time is your business, as long as it is 100 discreet. There are eyes and ears everywhere, and I.A.B. would love to see us both out the door – without a dime to show for years of hard work." He heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm just saying, 'be careful'."

"I suppose she can look forward to the same little pep talk tomorrow morning?" he said, trying not to sound as venomous as he felt.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, she can. And that's the way it's going to be, until I'm satisfied that everything remains professional in front of the brass." He gave Munch an exasperated glare. "Benson and Stabler _are_ under the same scrutiny, whether you choose to believe me or not, especially since Cassidy's been running his mouth for God knows how long. Hell, the guy probably even has _me_ sleeping with someone!

"That's all I have to say about all of this – stay out of trouble, protect your partner as she's to protect you, and both of you do your job. The rest will solve itself."

Munch slumped in the chair, defeated for the moment. "I'm trusting that advice, so it had better be good."

"It's the best I can do. I refuse to give up either one of you, so don't pull an Elliot on me and put your gun and badge on my desk. If you try to resign over this, I'll refuse it. Walk out on me and I'll just count those days against your vacation. Your 'boney ass', as Fin puts it, belongs to me and SVU until I decide otherwise. And I know you wouldn't have it any other way, so don't even try to persuade me to transfer either one of you."

His face softened, the brother in him coming out despite his best efforts to remain in captain mode. "Look, John, it's all going to be okay. Don't bite my head off for trying to do you a favor, all right. At least it's easier for the two of you to steal glances, with those tinted lenses you both wear." He smiled wryly.

"You're right, Don, and I _do_ appreciate this," he admitted, cooling down rapidly. "The problem is, I just haven't figured out how to make it work out yet on a professional and personal level. It was so much easier when she was FBI."

"If you need help, John, come to me. _That's why I'm here._ Come to me as a friend or a brother, though, not as an infuriated bundle of nerves and a badly bruised ego. My damned nerves can't take much more these days, or I'll be back on the bottle before I know it." He reached out his hand and John took it in a firm handshake. "We have too much history for this shit to come between us."

"Amen to that, he agreed. "Thanks for not ripping me when I shoved Cassidy. It could have been bad and I realize that now. I'm sorry I put you in that position."

"Hell, he deserved it and you needed the cheap therapy." He looked at John a long moment, seeing how he'd aged and thinking about his own older, much older face staring at him in the mirror every morning. "We're like brothers, you and I, as close to being blood as two people can be and not be related. We have more history together in this department than everyone else in the bullpen combined. We both know that."

"Again, you're right." His features softened. "I'm sorry, Don. I need to trust you more than I allow myself to do so. You've covered my ass more times than I can count and I shouldn't have treated you with such disrespect," he admitted. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Apology accepted, John. Don't give it another thought – just chalk it up to a family misunderstanding." He and John Munch had each other's back so often, it was reflex instead of conscious thought. You couldn't buy that kind of loyalty in the department these days.

"I'm just swimming in uncharted ocean right now, trying to fight against the undertow. Drowning could cost me my career."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Don reminded him. "When you're slipping under the waves, we're here to tow you back in. Keep that in mind."

Munch grinned, despite himself. "Just remember, if anyone asks – Sarah and I are carpooling. And that's the truth. I.A.B. can't bust us for unintentionally living two blocks from each other."

"'Carpooling'… Is _that_ what they call it these days?" Cragen teased. "I really have to get back into the loop. Maybe I can find someone to carpool with, too, on one of those dating sites. Now, get out of my office and get back to work. I've more than made my point."

"Yes, you have, Captain. Loud and clear," he said, wishing police work didn't have so much political and personal bullshit weighing it down. "Thanks again," he said softly as he closed the door behind him.

Cragen watched him go and sighed, reminding himself that the end legitimately did justify the means. He grinned wickedly and picked up the phone. It was time to collect on several unpaid, long-overdue debts and get rid of Brian Cassidy before he had a palace revolt on his hands and a union rep up his ass.

At the rate things were going, so many people were _riding_ his ass, he was considering installing seats and hand-rails on it.

"You okay?" Elliot asked, as Munch poured a cup of hot water and dropped a tea bag into it. "I thought he had good news for you. Didn't mean to get your hopes up," he said earnestly. "Instead, that seemed to be a longer than usual ass chewing. Cap on a tear again?"

"Only with me; nothing to worry about, but thanks for asking," he said, sitting down at his desk. "I feel like a high school junior who got caught making out under the bleachers. But I'm far from getting expelled for it, which is the good news. Me and Cap, we're fine – no problems."

Stabler and Benson both looked at him quizzically and then at each other, not quite getting the high school reference in light of the loud parts of the discussion they'd overheard, but before they could ask, John's mask went up and his defenses covered the after-effects of Cragen's heart-to-heart. He tried not to glance over at either one of them; it was just too painful. His feelings for Sarah Zelman were starting to surface and he had to hide them from everyone before they became another bullpen soap opera.

He was an intensely private man, she was an equally private woman, and they would keep each other's secrets for as long as humanly possible. Which, admittedly, wasn't easy when surrounded by some of NYPD's best detectives. But he knew how the game was played and so did she; perhaps it wouldn't be as taxing to guard their relationship as he initially feared.

**Chapter Twenty-Four: The Date  
**

Sarah Zelman felt her heart pounding in her chest and hoped to God she wouldn't do something completely sophomoric like pass out cold. She took a deep breath and knocked lightly on the door. Her evening coat was draped casually over her arm.

"Be there in a second," came the muffled reply. She swallowed hard.

She was wearing a little black sequined number that showed a lot more leg and cleavage than she was used to anyone seeing. At least she was a real person again, out of the neck and leg braces that made her feel like a shlump. Her bruises had healed, the soreness in her leg and neck were almost gone, and her ribs were down to a twinge if she moved wrong.

Hopefully her makeup was okay; it had been a long time since she'd used her makeup kit and she was sorely out of practice. _Less is better than more, she reminded herself._ Her earrings, tasteful faux diamonds, dripped lavishly and matched the necklace she hoped she wouldn't be wearing later. Her hand tightened on her sequined bag. _What the heck is he doing in there?_ she wondered. _I knocked ages ago._

A moment later, the door opened and he smiled. "Wow…. Oh, Sarah…." he allowed himself a small whistle. "You…wow…you look fantastic."

"Thanks," she said, returning the smile. "Mind if I come in?"

"Yes, I do," he quipped, gathering his control once more. "I'd just like to stand here forever and look at you."

"That's no fun, things won't progress," she shot back. "You're looking particularly handsome tonight, too. But don't we have more on our minds than just looking?" she teased. He looked amazing in his gunmetal gray slacks and crisp white shirt, with a tie that shimmered silk in the low light. She hadn't seen him in anything but black suits before; the color tonight made his salt and pepper hair even sexier than she could have imagined.

"If you could read my mind, you'd turn and run – while you still have a chance."

"Not a chance," she quipped, her nervousness evaporating. "Besides, I _never_ run in heels."

"Please… Come in," he invited, "But you have to remember I'm a bachelor."

"That's good," she said, walking into the small foyer, "because I don't date married men."

"Just previously married men?" he grinned at his private joke. He led her to the living room. "Thought we'd have a little something here, before we head to the restaurant. We've got plenty of time," he said.

She looked around without trying to be obvious about it. His place was Spartan, immaculately clean, with leather, chrome and hardwoods making up the majority of his décor. Music CD holders and bookshelves lined walls tastefully from floor to ceiling. She liked that; it immediately made her feel at home. He'd lit candles on the coffee table and had already poured two glasses of a red wine that glimmered garnet in the light.

"Make yourself at home," he offered. She noticed he was in stocking feet and she kicked off her shoes, hating to wear even so much as two-inch heels.

"Caviar? John, how did you know?" she asked, as her eyes lit up.

"We both like Russian literature, fine wines, premium vodkas. I thought the caviar was a safe bet."

"You've done it again," she said, shaking her head. "You're spending a fortune on me."

"Not to worry, it's the cheap stuff. On a detective's salary, you skip the osetra and go right to whitefish caviar and salmon eggs." He had spread small crackers with caviar and a tiny dollop of sour cream. She was very impressed and said so with a long kiss. "This is absolutely lavish."

"You haven't tried it yet," he countered.

"No… I meant kissing you." She picked up her wine glass and he did the same, clinking it to hers.

"L'chayim," he said, smiling. _To life._

"L'chayim," she replied. She swirled her wine as he had, admiring the bouquet. "This isn't 'Two Buck Chuck,' I can tell already."

"Hey! No making fun of Chuck – that's top quality wine, especially if you rack it for a couple-three years."

"True," she agreed. "Is this Sterling Vineyards' Reserve?"

"You taste it and tell me," he dared.

She took a small sip and let it linger sensuously on her tongue, before it trickled richly down her throat. "Hmmmmm… French or domestic?"

"You're a detective, you figure it out," he half-joked, enjoying perplexing her.

She took another delicate sip. "French. Too complex for even the best Napa wines these days. I'm also cheating because I know you're a Francophile, in addition to being a Russophile.

"And you know that how?" he asked, intrigued.

"What's not to know? Because Russian royalty didn't speak Russian – they spoke French," she said, watching him nod. "I'd place this as a Merlot, but not domestic."

"Smart ass," he chided. "Okay, I'll give you that it's a French Merlot, but not 100 Merlot grapes. Tell me what it's blended with," he said. "If you really concentrate you'll get it."

"Let me cleanse my palate first," she said, kissing him again. "Okay. Now comes the challenge. Last time I was put in this position, it was a tiny bistro in D.C. and there was a mix of no less than seven grapes in my wine. I got four out of seven and was able to identify what they'd given Carolyn right away – Napa Valley, so it was no challenge. How many varieties this time?"

"Three. But with that clue, now I require percentages," he dared anew. He picked up the remote control for his sound system and the room came alive with the dulcet tones of smooth jazz. She recognized it: "Europa" by Gato Barbieri, who played a very sexy saxophone. He idly wondered if she did know how to dance. He wanted to feel her against him.

"I'm game," she said. "Merlot…for the varied fruits and the bouquet. Fifty-five percent. Syrah, for richness, probably about thirty-five percent," she continued, "and I'll say the third is… Can I buy another clue?"

"Nope," he said, smiling. "I love watching you squirm. And I'll love it more later."

"You're so naughty," she chastised. "Okay, I've got it – the rest is Burgundy."

"Wow. You're good," he said, proud of her. "My ex-wives didn't known wine from wash-water. I could have given them a glass of Kedem and they'd have been happy."

"Kedem works for Shabbat," she said. "No ex-talk, though, that's all in the past," she chastised lightly, popping a cracker in her mouth. "God, how I adore caviar." Ecstasy was written all over her face. "Remember back in the Towers, when you said women couldn't resist you? I _knew_ you weren't lying."

He laughed out loud, taking another sip of wine. "Innocent until proven guilty," he said, taking a cracker. _If she only knew,_ he thought sarcastically.

"Fine wine – and I know this cost you big; candlelight, caviar, smooth jazz, dinner…" She raised her brows, "If we get as far as dinner. You could have saved a lot of money and we could have just gone into your bedroom," she teased. "I'm easy to keep happy and a cheap date, too."

"Don't you worry about my bank account," he asserted. "As for wine and nice dinners, I have serious connections." He looked a bit sad, but only for an instant. "With work, I simply don't have the women." He blushed. _Way to go, Munch,_ he thought, _that was suave._ "Sorry. Shouldn't have said that," he apologized. He felt so close to Sarah, he'd often share his thoughts without thinking first.

"What's to worry? It's harsh but true. Hazard of the job," she commiserated. "This is the first date I've had in over a year and a half." She looked at the caviar once more. "One more of these and that's my limit. I want to save room for this bistro you've been alluding to."

He could take a hint. They put down their wine glasses; he slipped the caviar into the refrigerator for later. He then put on his suit jacket and shoes, while she slipped back into her heels. He left the jazz playing, to give the illusion they were there. He eased her into her coat, ever the gentleman.

"Thank you," she said with a smile.

His doorman hailed a taxi and saw them safely off to dinner. She liked his doorman and wondered idly if he knew Charlie. She was starting to relax; for someone who hated surprises, she was genuinely enjoying what John had planned for their first real date, even though she hadn't a clue. Stranahan had spoiled her rotten, but something always happened to the poor guy to ruin the surprise and that had made dating him tense. With Munch, it didn't matter because everything always seemed to fall into place one way or another.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. She loved tall, strong men. They were her most dangerous weakness, especially if they wore a suit, carried a badge and gun – or all of the above. She hoped he'd left his cell phone at home; she had hers, but it was set to 'thrill.'

He loved the scent of her, especially her hair. He was thinking about her cologne when the taxi pulled to the curb. "We're here," he said simply, as they stopped at an unprepossessing little French place. He'd wanted to take her for fondue, which was incredibly sexy to share, but he knew his lactose intolerance would abruptly kill the rest of the evening.

He'd chosen this place because he knew the head chef, pastry chef and maitre d'; he knew they'd accommodate her preferences and it wouldn't cost him two-weeks' pay for an elegant meal. He'd come here a lot after his most-recent ex left, years ago, and the staff had nursed him through an emotionally devastating period in life.

John paid and tipped the driver, helped Sarah from the taxi and they walked together into the restaurant, holding hands.

"John Munch," Pierre du'Chant said, "welcome back to our humble abode."

"_Merci,"_ he replied. "I'd like you to meet a close friend of mine, Sarah Zelman." A member of the staff came forward to take their coats. "Everyone got my messages?" he whispered to Pierre, as Sarah was busy taking in the bistro's charming detail.

"_Oui,"_ he nodded. "And if you will allow me, I'll show you to your table." Sarah followed him, making small talk along the way, genuinely pleased. "May I call you 'Pierre'?" she asked.

"But of course," he said. "Please, feel at home here, just as John does."

"_Merci beaucoup,"_ she replied. "This table is grand, Pierre. The cuisine smells so wonderful, I wish I could try it all."

"John worked with our staff to present you a sampling of our best dishes, taking into account your allergies," he said, as they slipped into a sateen-lined banquette. "You can feel safe eating with us; we leave nothing to chance."

John noticed two Kir Cocktails on the table and smiled brightly. "Pierre?"

"A little something on the house," he explained. "I hope the lady enjoys framboises et champagne?

"Mais oui, monsieur. Chambord is one of my many weaknesses," she said, "especially when in champagne." They picked up their glasses. "To your health, Pierre," they said in unison.

"I thank you both very much. The appetizer should be arriving _dans_ _un moment_, if you please," he said. "I wish for you a most memorable evening. If you need anything at all, merely ask and it will be immediately be accommodated." He walked off in the direction of the kitchen.

John took the perfect strawberry from the side of his glass and fed it to her, as she fed hers to him. "See what I mean? It's my second…well, third…home."

"And your second home?"

"Your place." They both liked the sound of that.

The dined leisurely on 100 duck liver pate so intensely silky it required thin toasted slices of baguette to transport it from plate to mouth. Pure heaven – and they were relieved neither had to rush off to a crime scene.

The duck confit was impeccable, served with pommes frites sublimely golden. John had chicken tarragon en croute, the puff pastry so light it was only held on the plate by the moist chicken and accompanied by baby carrots. They sat and shared bites of each other's meals, both equally well-executed. Munch had selected a bottle of Chardonnay, from deep within their wine vaults in the basement. It had impressed both of them with its oaken creaminess.

"Have room for dessert?" he asked, hoping she'd say yes. He honestly couldn't recall the last time he'd taken a beautiful woman to a fine restaurant. He was in heaven.

She even tried her best to use a few words of French, out of respect for the staff. It wasn't colloquial, but she made it through and they were flattered at her attempts. He was proud she was fearless enough to try. None of his ex-wives knew more than English, and even then he'd catch them looking up some of his vocabulary in the dictionary. With Sarah, pretty and smart were neatly wrapped in the same package.

"Dessert… Wouldn't that be you?" she whispered in his ear, watching him smile seductively.

"I thought we'd indulge in a sugar fix first," he quipped. "Trust me, you'll need the energy," he added.

"What would you recommend? The crème Brule?"

"We have a remarkable tendency to think alike," he said, "because that's what I was considering. They top theirs with berries and freshly whipped cream. It's decadent."

"How's their espresso?"

"No less than perfect," he said. "It's served with their own biscotti."

"I'm sold," she purred. "Order for us?"

Off-duty, she was a bit traditional if not sometimes pleasantly a bit Victorian, and knew when to allow a man to order for the two of them. He did so, in fluent French. They fed each other dessert and felt like a couple of school kids. It was as if they'd stepped back in time, but with the knowledge they had from years of experience. Most of all, it was all so comfortable.

Afterward, tiny snifters of an aged cognac appeared. "Pierre, you're spoiling us," John said affably. "Does Jean have time to come out and say hello to Sarah?"

A moment later, the Head Chef came out and greeted Munch like a brother long lost. He looked to Sarah, "Ah, I see you have la femme tres belle," he said, smiling broadly. "Welcome to our bistro. Did mademoiselle enjoy tonight's dinner?"

"It was sheer perfection," she cooed. "Jean, you are absolutely brilliant. I've had many significant meals in my life, but this one genuinely stands out as the best. You must have been at the top of your class at Le Cordon Bleu. _Merci beaucoup, monsieur,_ for an excellent evening." He was beaming with pride as he strode back into the kitchen, his step considerably lighter than before.

"I have something for you," John mentioned. "He brought out a small pale blue box with a white bow and Sarah's heart stopped cold in her chest. He saw the color drain from her face and laughed. "Don't worry, sweetheart – even _I_ wouldn't propose on a first date, despite all we've been through together."

She let out a long sigh. "Jesus, John," she began, "don't ever scare me like that again. I can't take it. Especially knowing you have a few ex-wives." She giggled. She swirled the amber liquid in her glass and took another sip of cognac to recover. Hands shaking ever so slightly, she took the small box. A smaller velvet one was inside, also light blue. "I'd wish I'd known… I would have brought you something, too."

"Not necessary," he said. "Having you with me tonight is a gift better than anything I could ask for."

She almost melted; he truly meant what he said. She recognized the color of blue – _Tiffany's_. She hesitated, giving him another 'you're going to go broke look', then remembering he lived a Spartan existence, didn't _really_ pay alimony anymore and had no one to spend his money on but himself. She opened the box and it took her breath away; inside, gleaming as brightly as his smile, were two small azure blue topaz earrings set in _platinum_. "Oh…my…God… Ohhhhhh, John."

"Like them? I saw them and immediately thought of you," he admitted. "Blue topaz…'the color where the ocean meets the sky,' you called it."

She started to tear up and he wrapped his arms around her in the dimmed light. "You deserve to be spoiled," he whispered in her ear. "I'm just the man to do it." He'd waited until Tiffany's had a sale, and then swooped in to pick those up at a deep discount. He was generous, but he was also frugal. Like her.

Somehow she found her voice to thank him, but knew they couldn't get too physical in public. "Think you could ask for the check? I've had this insane desire to get you back to your place – actually never to have left it, but this was soooo worth it – and now I'm losing any reserve I may have had when we came in here," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.

"If I'd known little blue boxes made you so hot, I would have done that ages ago," he quipped, loud enough for only her to hear.

"It's not the gift, but the thought behind it that makes me want you," she said, ever so softly. He turned bright red, but it wasn't a blush; it was a flush of pride. After Danny Stranahan and all the men she'd worked with since, he'd been the one to turn her head. He wasn't about to stop the barrage until she was finally his. Like most Leos, he hated living alone and wanted a beautiful cat for the queen of his pride – like the Tigress at his side. He counted himself the luckiest man alive.

He signaled surreptitiously, paid the check, over-tipped handsomely because everyone followed his hurried instructions impeccably, and they took a taxi back to his place.

They returned to his place, took off their glasses and started to undress each other as soon as the door was closed, locked and bolted. "Oh, God, John… You have no idea how much I want to feel you against me," she said hotly.

"Just another thing we have in common," he said, closing his eyes and sensuously kissing her neck before tracing his way up to her lips. He felt her hands run over his chest and he went for his belt, before he got so stiff he'd have trouble getting out of his slacks.

He opened his eyes long enough to see she was wearing a bustier, garter belt and stockings. Everything in black, to match her dress, which she'd carefully draped over a chair. Just because she had a little Victorian streak, didn't mean she was at all inhibited when she was with John. She'd been dreaming of this moment, every bit as much as he had.

She took off his suit coat and laid it over her dress, then kissed him deeply while she untied his necktie. Once his tie was off, he kissed between where her bustier didn't cover and she gasped. The two of them worked in effortless coordination to get his shirt and undershirt off. He ran his fingers through her hair and French kissed her, happy she didn't pull back like some women he'd known. He tickled the roof of her mouth and she kissed him deeper.

They had each other's hands; he pulled her into the bedroom. The carpeting in the living room was wool and she was allergic. He wasn't about to bust the mood with her breaking out in a rash, but he wanted to take her on the floor first. It had been one of his many fantasies about her that tortured him relentlessly at work, when times were slow or paperwork was especially mind-numbing.

The two of them looked at the bed, then at the floor. Acrylic pile carpeting. She'd had the same thought. As he pulled off his briefs, she grabbed a pillow from the bed. He had her out of her panties in record time and slipped the pillow under her hips.

"No riding bareback," she whispered. He understood and quickly put on protection; having hoped he'd need them, he had a new package at the ready. He looked down at her, her smile inviting him into her depths. "Now, John… Take me now, before just your touch gets me off." He was filled with pride and felt himself getting even stiffer at the though that his mere touch could bring her to climax.

He entered her gently, tenderly, watching her eyes for any hint of pain. "Perfect fit," she whispered hotly. He slipped in and slowly started stroke after stroke. She was arching to meet each thrust, her arms and legs around him, holding him as she caressed his strong back and shoulder muscles. He felt as if he'd left his body, save for the ecstasy that increased each time he plunged deeper.

She moaned softly, calling his name, drawing him so close. Making love to Sarah was to take a trip into an uncharted universe, leaving your shell behind and knowing only the physical pleasure of unconditional love. His lips met hers; he quickened his pace as she tightened her hold on him and cried out softly in a wave of exaltation. She whispered a declaration of love in his ear and he returned it, feeling as if he would fly into a million pieces.

He heard her whisper desperately, "John…oh, God…oh my God," and he realized that he too had climaxed at the same moment. They lay together, utterly spent for the time being. He removed his 'raincoat' and they slowly returned to Earth, their souls somehow returning to their bodies.

He had wondered if the first time would be awkward, like first-time sex usually is, but he quickly realized it wasn't awkward because it wasn't simply sex – it was lovemaking, in the most profound sense of the word.

John excused himself to the bathroom for a moment and she took the opportunity to snag a couple of silk ties from his closet. When he came back, it was time for her fantasy. He grinned.

"I expected you'd grab our handcuffs," he said.

"Nope. Wouldn't want to hurt you with the metal. They could also scuff the bedposts." She held up the ties, and dared him with her gaze. "We're both control freaks. Are you okay with being lightly restrained?"

He'd never allowed anyone else to tie him up, _ever_. One of his ex-wives had done it one night when he'd slept too soundly from too much wine, after they'd argued. He awoke in a panic and was glad his gun wasn't within reach. His first thought was that a perp had done it – such was the state of his job, his nerves and his marriage. He got loose, but the experience had ruined the ties and any more lustful thoughts connected to that particular wife.

But he looked at Sarah and knew she would watch him carefully for any signs of distress. "The control word is 'orange.'" Sarah said, as John slipped into bed. "If you feel _any_ kind of discomfort – physical or emotional – say the control word and you'll be untied _immediately_. We clear on that?"

He nodded. "Got it."

Before he could cuff a perp, she had both his hands tied comfortably to the bedposts. She turned down the lights and lit a couple of candles, before pleasuring him in ways he'd only dreamed of until that moment.

Under her expert ministrations, he was stiff again sooner than he expected. He felt like he was in his early twenties again, at least sexually. She was carefully teasing him a bit lower down, drawing one part of him into her mouth and then another, then vice versa. He groaned with pleasure, quiet like she was, but starting to feel that otherworldly sensation again. He was beginning to wonder if she really _was_ from this planet.

She used her tongue in the most amazing ways, as he intended to do to her, but suddenly she changed tactics and rubbed a bit of Motion Lotion on her hands. He could smell the scent of strawberry and felt the rush of delightful heat as her hands worked their magic. Then, again with her positively amazing tongue.

Just as he felt the world begin to implode, she painlessly slipped a condom on him and settled over him, easing herself carefully down on him. She maintained a slow and steady pace that drove them both into a frenzy. He could actually feel the process of her climax as it kept pace with the one building in him. She leaned over and he caressed her breasts, before taking one of them into his mouth. It evoked a passionate sigh. He was thrilled she was enjoying all of this as much as he was. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had so much lovemaking with such reckless abandon.

She increased her rhythm and he gasped involuntarily, waves of sensation washing over him as ocean over sand, again and again. He wondered how on earth they somehow managed to climax simultaneously, but pushed those thoughts from his mind and accepted it all as a divine gift. "I love you, John," she said, collapsing on top of him for a moment.

"I love you, too, Sarah."

She carefully moved off of him, took of the condom and said lightly, "I'll be right back." Sarah studied him; he was glazed over with joy. "You okay?"

"'Okay' doesn't begin to describe it," he said.

She smiled and headed for the bathroom.

He could hear her brushing her teeth as he wriggled his wrists and the ties came loose easily; he knew that was another reason she'd chosen silk. He padded off into the kitchen and got them each a glass of water, which they drank greedily. It had been some time since they'd had such a workout and the small break was actually welcome.

Sarah slipped into bed, pulling the covers over her.

John slipped in and promptly disappeared toward the foot of the bed. Without warning, she felt his hands gently separate her thighs, caressing them, kissing them, making hot traces with his tongue. A drop of Motion Lotion had been added as well. He found his goal and flicked his tongue against it as she squirmed and moaned. He had a few techniques in store for her as well and he quickly switched among them to keep her off her guard, and moaning softly with more pleasure than she'd ever known.

"John, I hate to admit this, but I've never had multiples," she said, a bit self-consciously.

"You will tonight," John softly assured her, as he found his mark once more. She arched her back as he alternated between being light as a feather and strong as a flicker. After three more body-shaking orgasms, he knew she couldn't take anymore.

"You're the only man who's ever given me so much pleasure, so many times," she said, drifting off into a deep sleep. Hearing that was better than winning the New York State lottery.

He took a quick shower, toweled off and got into bed beside her. They dozed for an hour, but it felt like an eternity they were so thoroughly refreshed. He stretched and she awoke, glad they hadn't slept the entire night away. She still had one more thing for him…and this time, it wasn't sex.

"It hurts me to say this, but I _should_ go back to my place," she said, her satisfied smile turning into a matter of fact expression.

"Carolyn have you on a curfew?" Munch joked.

"She's not even home tonight – she's at Anita and Steven's overnight. They're having a stitching party with some friends." The thought of going home to an empty bed was weighing heavily on her mind.

"I'll walk you home," he said. "There's no way you're going out by yourself after dark." She hadn't been packing, so she wasn't allowed to walk without an escort.

"That's fine…unless…" she hesitated. "I have something for you. Want to see it?"

He grinned. "You mean I haven't already?"

"Not this – yet, it's like me, guaranteed to keep you up alllll night long."

He was intrigued. It was getting a _little_ late, even though they'd enjoyed an early dinner, but all the lovemaking had him feeling deliciously sleepy. He didn't want her to go, he'd rather she set the alarm for 'early' so she could stay the night and have breakfast with him in the morning. "All night long? Sounds like more lovemaking at your place," he said, smiling.

"Nope. Better."

"I find _that_ hard to believe." He got out of bed and started to get into briefs and scrubs, concealing a piece in his coat as easily as some men put on a hat. "I can't imagine anything better than this evening."

"Neither can I," she agreed. "Unless it's something that happened on a 'grassy knoll,'" she taunted.

"Sarah… You didn't…"

"Oh, yeah – you _know_ I did. Come to my place and find out," she said, getting out of bed and getting dressed. "You can glut yourself while I take a shower." He fastened her bra for her and she slipped back into her clothes. "But you have to promise that you'll sleep. I really don't want to keep you up all night. Promise?

He shrugged. "Promise."

"Okay, c'mon, let's go over to my place and I'll show you things the likes of which your eyes have never seen."

He felt like a twelve year old who'd just been granted access to the 'restricted' tent at the carnival. He wasn't sure what he was about to see, but he sure as hell knew he'd enjoy it.

"It's all here, John – everything you wanted to know about John Fitzgerald Kennedy's assassination, but were afraid you'd never see," she said, pulling three large file boxes out of the back of her closet. "You've already seen all the materials available through the Freedom of Information Act," so remember that all this is material you've never laid eyes on before." She smiled widely. "Glut yourself."

His eyes glazed over and he looked at her, as his hand swept slowly over the lid of the first box. "My God, Sarah… Do they know you have this?"

"Probably," she replied. "But I was careful and took copies a few at a time, so no one knew I was reviewing the case on my own." She looked at him seductively. "Told you I had something for you you'd never seen before."

"This is beyond incredible," Munch said, shocked. "Have you shown this to anyone else?"

"Nope. I was saving it for someone who would truly understand," she explained. "Danny and I used to talk about conspiracies, but he's an _amateur_ compared to us." There are photos in here that prove things you've only dreamed of. You can look over anything in these boxes with two restrictions: First, these don't exist. Second, the contents of these boxes never leave my place. Got it?"

"Got it," he said, taking the lid off the first box. "Oh…my…God." He was absolutely awestruck at what he saw.

"Happy?"

"Happy? Are you _kidding_?" he asked. "Sarah Zelman, are you absolutely sure you won't marry me?" He was, in fact, down on one knee – but deep into the first box.

"Not a chance, sweetheart. But I will share my files with you," she said, laughing. "And that's even better." She watched him scanning, reading, poking through a lifetime of documents that had been carefully acquired and preserved. She'd already read them all and knew he'd have to be dragged away from them, or he'd never sleep tonight.

"You, my love," John Munch said with sincerity, "are the woman of my dreams."

Chapter Twenty-Five: Arrival & Departure 

Zelman came in so early there was only one light on in the offices: Captain Cragen's office. She flicked the switches and the room awakened to illumination. Taking a look around, she wondered where she'd be sitting. She saw the coffee machine, put her shopping bag down on the floor next to it and started unpacking a box of breakfast pastries and freshly ground coffee. She put the half and half underneath in the small refrigerator, along with some containers of yogurt and fruit.

"Morning, Detective Zelman," Cragen said amiably. "You really do know the drill – you're going to be a big success with the rest of the team," he nodded to the pastries and coffee.

"Wanted to get off on the right foot with everyone is all," she replied. "Besides, it was Bureau tradition – new person brings the treats on their first day." Her eyes sparkled wickedly. "Don't get too used to it," she said, grinning.

"I'd like to meet with you in my office, before everyone comes in."

"That would be good. Do I have time to make coffee first?"

He winced. "I'd love to say 'yes,' but Detective Munch usually does that. It's kind of his unofficial job, if you know what I mean."

"No problem. Your office, now?"

"Please." He led the way, closing the door behind them. He held the chair in front of his desk as she sat down, then sat down behind his desk. "This is…a bit awkward, but it needs to be said."

"I can save you a lot of time and turmoil," she offered, looking him square in his sad eyes. "I expected this, and Munch gave me a heads' up as you knew he would." She heard him let out a relieved sigh. "Shall I continue?"

"Please do. Because I wasn't sure exactly how to proceed – the last thing I want is for us to have a bad start to what I hope is a long, productive association."

"Agreed," she said, shaking her head in the affirmative. "I'm pretty blunt when the situation calls for it, as you'll discover on your own with time. Basically, John and I are to be the 16th's best kept secret and everything is to remain professional, no matter what."

She looked to him and he nodded. "When we do go out, we're to be careful where we go and how we conduct ourselves in public, we aren't to attract attention and there should be no open displays of deep affection." She released her lock on his eyes and he felt himself sink back in his chair, as if he'd been held upright by force. "Anything I'm missing?"

"Nope. Not a thing," he said. "Are you okay with all that?"

"Yes, sir, I am. I think it's best for everyone concerned. John and I would rather keep this to ourselves anyway; it's 'different' when you get a little older. You just don't want everyone knowing your biz."

"Well, I'm glad you understand. You're a quick study, Zelman; I'm glad I didn't have to sit here and tap dance. He told you about Benson and Stabler?"

"Yeah, but their situation is completely different and it's their business."

"If you ever want to talk, or if it feels like you're in over your head, come talk with me," he offered. "We're very much family here, as you'll find out fast. I pulled strings to get you, yes – but not for John, because we need a full-time profiler instead of relying so heavily on Huang," he explained.

He hesitated for a moment in awkward silence, then spoke. "You know, Sarah, I can be blunt, too," the Captain continued, "and I know you can take it. In a way, I _did_ do this for John. I've seen him almost consistently happy for one of the few times in his life…happy when he's not working, instead of only happy when he is. Does that make sense?"

"Perfectly." She looked down; Cragen could see tears standing in her eyes, but knew she wouldn't crack in front of him, especially on her first day. "I need a law enforcement family again. I lost all 29 of mine when the Bureau offices were destroyed." She swallowed hard. "I should be with them, but because of John Munch, I'm not."

"But…you're glad he saved your life, aren't you?"

"Honestly, Captain," she said with a sigh, "I'm trying hard to be, but this is my second near-death and I'm starting to question what my purpose is in life. Losing 29 coworkers must feel like losing your unit to the Viet Cong. It's going to take more time with Huang…I hope you understand. I need to work and I need John, or there's not much left for me. I'll do my best to always give you what you want, but it will take some time to get over what happened. Know what I mean?"

"I do, Sarah. I was _in_ 'Nam," he said softly. "Buried too many of my brothers there, then had the therapy to prove it," he said sympathetically. "On another note, now that you're here, I can transfer Cassidy."

She stiffened. "I didn't bank on costing someone their job, Captain. I don't like the sound of that. He'll meet me and immediately hate me, which isn't good for business."

"He's dead wood, Sarah. Plus, I hate to admit it, but he's _such_ an asshole. You'll recognize him the first time he opens his trap."

"Doesn't 'play well with others,' is that it?"

"It'll all come out later today. He just got off a long rip for spreading gossip, most of which he'd embellished. He'd also embellished some of his files, which I _do not_ tolerate under any circumstances.

"But the upshot is, he blows every case in which he's on the stand. He doesn't even know the sex crimes vocabulary, so he's been making the A.D.A. look like she's putting a five year old on the stand each time he testifies. We have an office pool going that at the next trial – if there is one – he'll actually use the word 'pee-pee' instead of 'penis.'"

She stifled a wry laugh, "Oh, God, no… Sounds like he's in way over his head."

"So to speak," Cragen said, a wicked grin on his face.

"Look, I can even go under as a dominatrix if you need it, or a working girl. Nothing's too gritty, I'm not squeamish in the least and I know more about sex than any therapist – including all the vocabulary. My doorman never knew I was FBI for all those years. He thought I was a writer," she said, grinning.

"I know. I got your entire story from Quantico; had to work pretty damned fast to get you over here before the C.I.A. or some other agency snapped you up, which is why I need you to stay."

"Yeah, like we discussed over apple pie that day, they were courting me and I wasn't exactly fond of it. I felt like, as soon as the FBI cut me loose, I was on the auction block or something."

"It's also why you're starting off with a gold badge instead of working up to it."

"That privilege didn't go unnoticed, Captain. Thank you," she said gratefully, her hand unconsciously moving to the new gold badge on her belt. That morning, she'd slipped a black band around it and allowed the tears to flow, as all of her fellow officers had done before her.

"I wasn't about to make a seasoned cop start from the ground up," he asserted. "And don't worry about Cassidy; I found him a nice, safe lateral move in our narc division. He'll be in better hands over there. Sex crimes make him sick, anyway, which is why I've been eager to replace him. I figure Munch has suffered more than enough," he said with a grin.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet the second addition to our head-count." Zelman stood next to the Captain and tried to smile, feeling more like a science fair exhibit than experienced law enforcement personnel. "This is Sarah Zelman, previously a profiler and forensic weapons expert with the FBI and now she's a gold badge with us, hopefully for a long time to come. I hope you'll all make her feel welcome." _Let's see how they react to finally seeing Munch's new best friend,_ he thought, as he watched their reactions carefully.

Elliot had been standing next to the coffee maker, alongside Olivia. He was the first one to shake hands with her. "Elliot Stabler," he said, fixing her with his blue eyes and smiling widely. "And my partner, Olivia Benson," he added, giving the ladies a chance to shake hands.

Olivia was so glad to see her, after they shook hands she pulled her into a hug and got a mutual hug in return. "It's great having another woman in the squad," she said warmly. "Welcome to the 16th. Looking forward to introducing you to our A.D.A., too."

"Thanks, A pleasure to meet both of you." Her handshake had been firm and warm, they'd noticed with satisfaction. She was no Prima Dona, they could tell already.

"Hey! Don't forget the gimp in the back, and bring me some coffee woman!" came a voice familiar to Sarah.

"_Yoda-Fin?_ Oh, my...gosh… Get off your butt and get your _own_ damned coffee!" She laughed and started for his desk, noticing Munch was at Fin's desk as well. _Good place to hide,_ she admitted silently.

"Yoda-Fin?" Olivia quizzed. "There has to be a reason for that nick-name, so tell. This ought to be _good_."

"Oh, yeah. We used him on a couple of meth lab mega-busts, when I worked for the Feds," she explained. "He was so intuitive at finding labs while they were just _thinking_ about starting to cook product, I dubbed him 'Yoda-Fin,' a play on his given name of Odafin. The guy has intuition so good, he should make $7.95 a minute."

"And I called her, "The Queen of Quantico," because she was like fire and ice, baby. Never panicked, always knew when to draw her piece, and she always came out of any situation clean as a damned whistle – like she'd stepped out of a clothing store window or somethin'." He smiled wickedly. "But there was this one time – "

"Don't you dare tell that story!" she mock-threatened. "Finnnnnn… I promise you a life of living hell," she said, laughing. "Damn, Fin, you tell that story and I will force feed you Munch's coffee until you cry like a six year old!"

He ignored her protests. "'That time you jumped the redwood fence, took a 22-caliber shot to the shoulder that your partner should have blocked, rolled off a dumpster, hit the concrete and sprained your ankle so bad we had to carry you. You looked a little worse for the wear that night, when we hauled your sorry ass into Emergency."

They'd both started to laugh, remembering that night all too well. She had come almost completely unglued when she'd ruined her shirt, and he had been there to see it. It had been a comedy of errors that turned out perfectly in the end; they both laughed about it many times throughout the years. "He rats me out on this one every chance he gets," she explained, as her face turned red.

"You bitched all the way there that you were getting blood in the unit," he continued, "like you were worried about catching hell from Detailing. I remember you being soooo pissed for _daring_ to bleed! But you'd chased the perp right to us and it was a quick, clean bust, so we wouldn't let Detailing give you any shit. It took them _days_ to get your blood outta that unit. And the perp got a life sentence, too, since he'd shot a cop. We made him on an attempted murder charge, among others. Great bust that night, aside from the blood!

"You will, of course, notice that I left out the part about you passin' out dead cold after we got you to the precinct," he chided. "She was fine – we dropped her into a crib and kept and eye on her, to make sure she wasn't gonna go stiff on us or somethin'. Wrapped her in blankets and put her legs up, then got her up every thirty minutes to pour herbal tea into her." He laughed and shook his head. "What a mess you were, girlfriend!"

"You're still every bit the discreet gentleman I remember," she said wryly, as everyone caught the double-entendre and laughed. "To this very day, I still don't know why I passed out…it was only a 22-cal," she said, perplexed. "I guess it was because I'd been forced to deal with _your_ sorry ass all night on nothing but coffee. Granted, we were a little too busy to think about food."

"Nahhhh, my guess is, you were probably anemic or somethin' since you don't eat enough sliders."

"Those things are nasty, Fin, they're made out of onion-flavored dog food, y'know," she chided. "Yechhh! But now I know what to bribe _you_ with."

_She'd passed out from blood loss._ John Munch's shoulders stiffened at the thought of Zelman having been hit. _The t-shirt… _he recalled. _So that was it._

"Thanks for the trip down memory lane," she said affably, as everyone shared a laugh with her. "A bust with Fin is like a plane crash, everyone – if you can do so much as crawl away, it's gone better than expected."

"I take it you've met my partner, who is – with my blessings and condolences – _your_ partner until my knee heals up. I might go out and play tennis or something, just so it takes longer to heal," he teased.

"John Munch, meet Sarah Zelman. But don't call her 'The Queen of Quantico,' or she'll make you dive into dumpsters looking for evidence. Or worse." He grinned and shot his partner a surreptitious wink. Fin was in on everything; Olivia had brought him up to speed quickly.

"Not to worry, folks," she said, "I checked my tiara at the door and I'll sell it on eBay later today. I'm no longer FBI, by the way – I'm happy to say I'm SVU now. 100."

She and John shook hands formally, as if meeting for the first time. "Detective Munch."

"Agent Zelman. Or, I should say, Detective Zelman. Nice badge," he said, allowing himself to smile. "Gold suits you."

"Thanks. 'Detective' has a nice ring to it, but call me Sarah, please."

"Call me John. Nice to see you."

"You two must have rehearsed that all night! I should have sold tickets to _this_ show," Cassidy said a little too loudly, with a crude wolf whistle.

The room went quiet enough to hear a cell phone hit the floor and everyone groaned inwardly at the hapless SVU rookie's actions. Elliot shot him a glare that should have caused full cardiac arrest or at least lasered his mouth shut. Brian was, as always, completely oblivious.

"Cassidy, don't you have your pop-up book to study – you know, the one with the words 'pee-pee' and 'ca-ca' in it?" Munch snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Maybe then we can put you on the stand without having to hang our collective heads in shame."

Cragen was ready for it. "Cassidy, my office. **Now**." It was said with more authority than the staff had heard in months. They watched Brian get up and go into Cragen's office, already taking off his gun belt and sliding off his badge. They heard their captain slam the door so hard, the glass rattled.

"I wouldn't want to be him right now," Elliot said, letting out a long sigh. "He just traded down from silver to uni blues."

"He blew his probation with that remark," Benson added. "And I couldn't be happier. First round's on me tonight, gang. Seriously, I'm buying. And if Cap gets rid of Brian by tonight, I'm buying him a decent dinner, too."

"Okay, children, just because we've been slow in the sex crimes department doesn't mean we don't have a lot left to accomplish this week. As a matter of fact, Cassidy will be joining Narcotics right now. He's going to be busy packing up for the move, so perhaps you'll all forgive him for being a bit other-directed." _I've finally gotten rid of that asshole, _Cragen thought, satisfied. _The troops will probably buy me dinner tonight, they'll be so glad._

"Do they have pop-up books for Narc, too?" John said ruefully.

"I know this hasn't been an easy department for you, Brian. I found you a good home in Narcotics, and they're waiting for you as soon as possible."

He felt like the floor had dropped out from beneath him, but at least he wasn't busted back down to a blue uniform. "Yeah… well… it's been good. Thank you, Captain."

Whether or not Cassidy fit in down there, the Captain didn't care. What mattered was that he was no longer Munch's problem – or his. He had intended to be a gentleman and wait until Zelman was out of the room before sending him to play cowboy with the Narcs, but the 'tickets' comment sent him straight over the edge.

Cassidy couldn't be trusted to keep his mouth shut in a department where discretion, and often overt secrecy was necessary, so it was time to make him an S.E.P. – Somebody Else's Problem.

_Cassidy, you worthless little creep, you're a dead man,_ Sarah thought, forcing herself to stand completely still until the flash of homicidal fury had started to pass. Munch saw the look on her face and could almost read her mind.

Cragen was glad Zelman had risen above Brian's comments; he knew she was

perfectly capable of rendering Cassidy from rooster to hen, bare-handed. He saw the look on her face and knew the thought had crossed her mind. Better to get her out of the room; having to give the new help a long rip wasn't how he wanted things to start.

He pointed to the desk in back of John's. "Speaking of moving, Olivia would you help Sarah get settled into her new home?"

"My pleasure, Captain," she said brightly. "First, let's get your locker and crib assignments taken care of, then I'll help you transfer files and call TARU to authorize your computer access."

"Thanks – much appreciated." She hesitated. "Before I forget, thank you everyone for the flowers and the card. That was really sweet," she said genuinely. "It means a lot to me." She intentionally had her back to Cassidy.

"You're welcome," Elliot said, "and thanks for the drinkable coffee. But you'll find out all about that later." He smiled.

"Yeah," came Fin's voice from the back desk. "And the food. You sure know how to kiss ass, don'cha?"

"Just never expect me to kiss _yours_ or you'll be sorely disappointed," she retorted quickly, as she and Olivia walked off toward the crib, giggling.

Cragen laughed. "Damned if she doesn't fit right in."

Elliot winked at Munch. Munch discreetly smiled. He couldn't help but think the day was already so much better than he expected.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Meet & Greet 

"Ladies and gentlemen, today we'll be upstairs in the War Room," Don Cragen said. Heads snapped up from computers and paperwork, as all his detectives wondered simultaneously what was going down that require their combined presence in the special meeting room.

"Cap?" Elliot asked, "what's up?"

"At this point, we're simply getting acquainted and reacquainted with officers and

agents from both the FBI, Secret Service, the C.I.A. and the U.S. Marshals Service," Cragen said.

"NYPD's SWAT and bomb squad people will be there as well, and we're expected to join the party," he continued. "It's a 'meet and greet' at this point, so we can all get familiar with each other. There will be no talk of _why_ we're there or what we'll be doing. TARU has, however, swept the room for any surveillance. That's all I'm allowed to disclose at this time. TARU is also a part of this meet and greet. Swap your business cards with _everyone_ you can; details will follow later. Make sure you look people in the eye, get a good idea of what they look like and can remember with whom you spoke later on."

Benson and Stabler traded a look that asked a thousand questions, but gave no answers. "Wonder when this came about?" Elliot whispered to Olivia. She shrugged.

Fin was remarkably quiet, as he searched on his computer for anything that would clue him in. _Nada_, he thought, after a few moments of quick searches. _"Somethin's going down and we're all about to go hip-deep,"_ he thought.

Munch tried not to look at Zelman, but both sets of dark eyes had met ever so briefly, at the tops of their darkened lenses. Munch was also scanning his computer for clues, surprised when Zelman scooted back quietly in her chair.

"Check your hormones at the door, people, and be on your best behavior," Cragen added. "The Chief will be there as well as the Mayor. We go in twenty minutes, so freshen up if you need to."

"Captain, a moment please?" Zelman asked. She could feel Munch's hot glare follow her into the office. He'd pulled in a favor and someone he knew had run the jacket on Dan Stranahan and his son, Jack. They'd worked a couple cases together before, but he couldn't tear into Sarah about it for two reasons: first, it wouldn't be fair, and second, it was all job related. Or so he hoped.

"Sure. C'mon in," he said, closing his office door behind them.

"Any idea who's coming to the party from the Marshals?"

"Let me look," he replied, checking his notes. "Okay… Agents Daniel Stranahan, Bobby Taylor and Jack Stranahan – Daniel's son, by the way." He saw her face go intentionally blank and noticed her color had pinked slightly as well. "Talk to me, Zelman. If there's something I need to know, twenty minutes before a meeting isn't the time to hold out on me."

"Danny Stranahan is my ex-boyfriend of five years, but I'll make sure it has no bearing on this case or this meeting," she said stiffly. "He'll make sure as well, especially since his son Jack is also involved."

"_Very_ nice job of covering your ass," he said, visibly impressed. He also hoped the Bureau would see her in action with SVU and burn with envy, after they'd tried to force her out of police work.

"Call it intuition…or karma," Zelman said. "If the Marshals were involved, I figured they'd send their big guns. The Stranahans are among the best of the best; makes sense they'd be at the top of the action."

"Should you give Munch a heads' up? He might get a little cranky if Stranahan is too friendly."

"He won't be. We were always very discreet."

"Good to know," Cragen said with a nod. "And you will keep it that way."

"We will. And to answer your unvoiced question, no, we never slept together."

He arched his brows. "Look, Sarah, I didn't mean – "

"Sure you did." She smiled affably and he let out his breath, not realizing he'd been holding it. "Danny and I are the very best of friends these days, Cap, and that's all. We could – and can – always count on each other. If John gets testy about it, he and I will handle it off-site. You won't have to worry about any pissing contests on my behalf." She went for the door, in time to hit the ladies room before the meeting. She'd clue Olivia in, as well. "Thank you."

"Anytime. Thanks for the early warning." He watched her leave, idly wondering what on earth Dan Stranahan had done to lose her. He hoped whatever it was, John wouldn't make the same mistakes.

Everyone convened upstairs as Walter Chen finished scanning the room. He was TARU's best and would remain for the meeting, not only to record it with a secured system, but to make sure no one tried to electronically eavesdrop on the proceedings.

"Room's cleared, Captain," he said. "You're free to commence."

"Chief, after you, sir." He gestured toward the room, which had been fitted out with small round tables and a buffet of appetizers, desserts, coffee, tea and soft drinks.

"Thanks, Don," the Chief said, leading the procession of law enforcement personnel into the room. "C'mon in, everyone, and we can get started. Just a few comments before we start to get to know each other."

"And discover whom we can trust who we can't," Stabler said, just loud enough for Benson and Munch to hear.

"Your mouth to God's ears," John said, with his usual level of sarcasm. "At least we know we can count on _our_ people," he said softly.

The Chief cleared his throat and everyone turned toward him to listen. "We're at a national security level unheard of in this country before, people. New York is, as you would expect, at the forefront along with Washington, D.C.

"All I'm allowed to say at this time is, get to know each other – everyone in this room, with no exceptions – as best you can," he continued. "We will be doing a VICAP mission soon and you'll need to know each other by sight and by abilities."

Heads snapped to attention at the mention of the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Normally SVU wasn't a part of such tactics, leaving that aspect of the job to NYPD's unies and SWAT to work in tandem, often with the Bomb Squad and HazMat.

Fin and John shared a long look, then both stared hard at Sarah Zelman. She maintained an unreadable expression, before passing close to Fin who was almost at her side.

"Don't ask. I can't tell. Neither can George Huang, who just walked in." With that, she started to mingle with the NYPD's SWAT team, as they traded cards and talked about guns and other forms of ordnance. After that, Munch noticed she talked quietly with members of the Bomb Squad and HazMat.

_What's she thinking?_ Munch wondered. _Zelman has to know more than she's sharing right now, that's for certain._

John and Fin went over to chat up the C.I.A. staffers, while the Stabler and Benson went to talk with the FBI first, then the U.S. Marshals. Within forty-five minutes, they'd all worked the room pretty well.

A break was called to allow time for additional refreshments or private conversation in the hallway, after it too had been cleared by Chen. Sarah, earlier having taken the opportunity to have a couple of cups of decent coffee – instead of the sludge that Munch made downstairs – was off to the ladies' room with Benson.

"Anything you can share?" Olivia asked Sarah, wondering why Special Victims would be called in on something so obviously out of their usual routine.

"Not without a rip, and that would be only because I'd be theorizing," she admitted. "I'm as curious as you are, and my sources at the FBI weren't any help at all, but at least they didn't freeze me out. Lots of theories, but no facts…yet."

"Anyone else you could ask? The suspense is killing us… Stabler's all over me to get info out of you, because he's _sure_ you know something," she explained. "Munch thinks you're holding out, too. I've mentioned a million times that you're SVU now, but Elliot's stubborn and thinks you know more than we do."

"If I knew anything at all, I could tell you," Zelman said adamantly. "And if I did, believe me, I would – and right quick. But this is all in the dark at the moment, even for me," she said. "Just wish I could convince your partner he can trust me. I get this feeling he's waiting for me to prove myself, but be damned if I know how he expects me to do that," she added.

"Everyone gets that vibe off of Elliot, so don't let it worry you," Olivia explained. "It's his Catholic guilt – he's trying so hard to prove so much to himself, he forgets the rest of us can't live up to his standards, either." She smiled. "If he really gets on your nerves, just let me know. I'll deal with him," she promised.

"I realize it's premature of me to say this," Zelman said, "but ditto – if John gets a little too conspiratorial or sarcastic, let me know. I have ways of making him behave," she joked, in her worst German accent. The ladies shared a laugh and again it made Liv glad she wasn't the only woman there.

"Guess it's time we get back in there, huh?" she asked, dropping her paper towel neatly into the wastebasket.

"Definitely, before they think _we're_ the enemy. Or worse," Sarah joked, "in here plotting how to take over their meeting."

Zelman saw a familiar face when she came back down the hallway. "Danny… They reconvene without us? I thought we still had ten minutes?"

"Hey, Sarah," Danny Stranahan said, with practiced nonchalance. "We have plenty of time, no problem. You okay?" The look on his face was genuine concern. "Munch called and told me you'd spent time in the hospital. Heard it was touch and go for awhile."

"Yeah, it was a hell of a lot more than I bargained for," she admitted. "But I'm good. Getting ever better over time." Her mask softened ever so slightly. "Thanks for the flowers, they were beautiful. I meant to call you, I truly did – but there wasn't a signal out of I.C.U., and by the time I got to med/surg Munch said he'd called. I'd asked him to; wish it could have been sooner, so you didn't have to worry as much."

"He called as soon as he could. We talked for about twenty minutes; got to know each other a bit. He's a good guy." Danny looked down at his polished boots. "Would have been nice to hear your voice," he said softly.

"I know," she whispered. "I'm sorry… It was just – all too much at once. If I wasn't zonked on pain meds and tranquilizers, I was wondering why I was the only one who made it out from my office."

"That's a rough one, but you can take it," he asserted. "I know you can. You've been through worse."

"It's good to hear that, coming from you." She couldn't bear to tell him PSTD was accumulative; it wasn't as if he didn't know that anyway. "When I hear it from you, I feel stronger. You've always had that effect on me."

"Just the truth as I know it," he said simply. He relished having been her mentor; he'd joined the Marshals and then tried to lure her over from the FBI. More than once.

"Means a lot to me." She cocked her head to one side and looked deep into his blue hazel eyes. She saw the longing and regret and had to back off her gaze. "Looks like the Marshals Service agrees with you – and it's good you've got Jack's back and vice versa. You two make a hell of a team." She'd always been so proud of Dan and his son.

"We do," he said proudly. "Remind me to show you pictures of my grandkids later. Got a whole passel of 'em now!"

"_Cool!_ I bet they all have the Stranahan blue eyes and dark hair, too." She made a mental note to have dinner with him sometime, to catch up on a friendship still solid.

"You and Munch…together?" She shrugged not wanting to rub it in although she wanted on a deeper level to admit it. Her cheeks went warm. "I'll take that as a 'yes.' Congratulations." He sounded genuinely happy for her and she was grateful.

"Thanks. I won't deny it," she said after all. "You still surfing? Being stationed in Miami and having South Beach right there…well, hell, you've got a constant stream of beauties falling head over heels for you. You still look like a younger Ric Ocasek, y'know." He grinned at their favorite in-joke. Stranahan held an amazing resemblance to the lead singer of a 1980s group, The Cars, and even played a Fender Stratocaster with ease and finesse. The Service made him cut his hair, but he still had occasions to grow it long, which enhanced the resemblance.

"Beach bunnies are a nice diversion – laying on the beach, watching all the beautiful women. I still surf when there's time… Keeps my mind off the one that got away."

She laughed, trying to pass it off. "We make better friends than potential lovers, Danny," she admittedly softly. "Just remember one thing: I never regretted a moment we had together, and I never will."

"Same here." He debated shaking hands with her again, but it hurt to touch her; more now than before.

She saw John come out of the men's room and saw everyone starting to reconvene the meet and greet. "Time to head back in," he said, passing by."

"Yep," he said. "This might even lead to something where we get to shoot ourselves some guns," Stranahan said brightly. He grinned at Zelman. It had been one of their in-jokes, years ago.

"Listen to _you_," she said, feigning exasperation, "the more you change, the more you stay the same!" She shook her head and walked back into the meeting, feeling John effortlessly move into the space between them and place his hand on her back for a moment.

_Marking their territory, each in their own way. Leos, both of them._ She'd promised Cragen no pissing contests between the big cats and so far they were all on their best behavior. Hopefully, that wouldn't change, otherwise she'd have no choice but to knock a few heads together. She was a big cat, too, but wouldn't tolerate a turf war.

Neither had seen her 'bad cop' image, but that certainly didn't mean it wasn't an innate part of her nature. She didn't want to bring it out to keep the two of them in line. _So far, so good,_ she thought.

They'd all gathered again, finished chatting each other up and trading business cards within another 20 minutes. Suddenly, Walter Chen yelled, "Silence! We've got company!" Everyone stopped short, mid-sentence as TARU's best could be seen looking out the window, his fingers simultaneously dancing across the keyboard of his top-of-the-line laptop. "Someone's trying to bust our firewall, so I'm pulling all computers offline now."

"Chen, what's the source?" the Chief asked. "Is it coming from inside or outside?"

"Outside – false alarm, folks. It was a non-requested tie-in from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue."

"Can you verify that, Walter?" Cragen asked.

"Just asked them for a variety of codes and they knew each one, so they're good. Also tracked the DNS server and it was the real deal, so I shot back a message they can get a transcript only from their Secret Service people…just in case."

"Good work, Walter," the Chief said. "Cragen, you did good getting Chen away from the FBI when you did," he said quietly.

Benson and Stabler's ears perked up quickly. "So," Elliott said, "Sarah's not the only one. Nice of them not to tip anyone off."

"Maybe they didn't know each other before now. It's a huge organization," she reasoned.

"Huh," he huffed. "I'd bet my paycheck they knew each other before now."

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ordnance & Armor 

Munch walked into the bullpen and saw two enormous boxes on Sarah's desk. He sat down, swore to himself he wasn't going to check them out, but then Elliot spotted them as he walked in. "Hey, John, what's with the boxes? She planning on shooting the entire city and putting us all out of work?" he joked.

"I noticed those, but am studiously avoiding the insane urge to check the return address," he admitted. "But since I need to get up and make coffee – "

"Sludge, you mean," Stabler corrected.

"The beverage of the morning, without which you would all complain -- loudly," he compromised, "then I can kind of look over….here….." He neatly flipped the first box and found it unexpectedly light. "See any return address on this?" he asked Stabler, who was also looking.

Munch sighed. "Found it. Stranahan. Department of Justice, Miami office."

"It's addressed to the 16th, _technically_," Stabler said. "Want to open it?"

"No, you _don't_ – or the other one on her desk, either," Olivia Benson said, as she walked in and heard her partner's curiosity. "Whatever's going on, we'll find out soon enough."

Zelman emerged from the cribs, looking tired and spent, as John made coffee. "Oh, _crap_," she said. "Don't tell me, let me guess – Dan Stranahan?"

"Yep," Munch said. "You spent the night here?" he asked, trying to sound less concerned than he felt. She looked wiped.

"Working on our part of the presentation," she admitted. "Coffee. The only thing that will save me now is the Dark Maiden of Caffeine." She heard it perking through the coffee maker and silently blessed Munch for the sludge she was about to receive.

"We're all trying to figure out what the boxes are about," Stabler explained. "We were going to try and open them, but – "

"I stopped them," Olivia said, "in case it was something personal."

"Stranahan wouldn't send anything personal, not from his D.O.J. office," she said, equally intrigued. "Anybody got a pocket knife?"

Munch flipped open the blade on his Swiss Army knife and they slit open both boxes. "Well, would you look at that… " She reached in and pulled out one of several heavy vests. "Body armor," he said simply. "The good stuff, too."

Cragen had been watching all of this from the relative secrecy of his office, but it was time to get to the bottom of it all. He walked out, just as they were pulling medium-length blades, all holstered ready to slip on to their belts, from the second box. "Nice… Very nice," he admitted, in a tone of voice that told Zelman's caffeine-deprived brain she was about to get an ass-chewing. "Zelman," he said softly, "my office, please? Now."

"The new gal gets a 'please,'" Munch said, "we passed that a long time ago."

"She's still _special_," Stabler quipped. "That's why she gets a 'please.'"

"Yes, sir." She followed him in like a lamb going to slaughter. She thought of elbowing or body-checking Elliot as she passed him. His smart-ass comments weren't helping, as he knew all too well.

"Have a seat." Cragen's expression said this was going to be a long ass-chewing; he might actually be ready to go for a record-breaker. "Want to explain to me why, when we have ordnance-resistant vests, we were just gifted with a huge box of them – and another box containing SEAL-quality blades from the United States Department of Justice?"

"I have no explanation, sir," she admitted. "Marshal Stranahan sent them completely of his own accord and I did not request them, sir."

He gazed at her for a moment that seemed an eternity. "Because we have no time to send them back, we will use them," he decided. "Admittedly, they are of better quality than I could requisition on such short notice and – don't get me wrong – I appreciate his thoughtfulness."

"I'm not sure how to respond to that, Captain," she admitted.

"I will call him directly to thank him and you will remain out of this, until after the VICAP recon, and then you can thank him…as you see fit."

Her slightly-opened mouth made it clear there was a lot she wanted to say, but she'd been warned by John not to further anger Cragen when he was in the middle of giving your backside a hard spank. She sighed. "A simple phone call will do, I'm sure, sir."

"Look, Zelman," he began anew, "I can see now this wasn't your doing. But anything like this has to be requisitioned through the proper channels, starting with _me_. It makes me look like I have no control over my precinct otherwise. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, sir – and I'm very sorry." She was working on only five hours' sleep and he knew it, which was why he tried to be gentle and she tried to be tactful. "I cannot control his actions, but I can certainly make him aware of precinct policy," she offered. "To be blunt, however, we can use those because they're heavier than what we have."

"I'm not disputing that, Zelman," he agreed. "I'm just reiterating if anyone asks, the directive came from _me_, got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"I hold you to a higher standard, without giving you the benefit of the learning curve," he explained, "and sometimes it's not fair. I should have known Stranahan was just looking out for everyone's welfare."

"At least it was everyone," she said. "If not everyone, then no one, as far as I'm concerned. If he'd just sent one to me, I would have sent it back immediately."

"I'm sure you would have," Cragen said sincerely. "Now, for your punishment…"

"Three-day rip?" she started, trying to bargain. "I'll still be here. I'm not leaving without completing the VICAP mission," she asserted.

"Worse. Don't get me wrong, detective, this is rather serious and could be construed as insubordination."

"I understand, sir, but that was never my intent," she said, standing her ground.

"Ten-day rip…or…." Cragen dragged it out dramatically, watching her poker face. _I'll be damned,_ he thought, _she's seriously ready for the consequences of her actions._

"I'll accept whatever you deem appropriate, but I can't guarantee that Stranahan won't get a piece of my mind." She desperately needed coffee. Her mood was plummeting by the second.

"No, he won't," Cragen asserted once more. "Ten-day rip…or…I send you back to the crib for a couple more hours' sleep and then sentence you to a cup or two of John's terrible coffee."

Her face gave way to a grin. "That rip still on the table? Might do my guts a whole lot better."

"You wish," he joked. "Get some sleep and I'll send Liv in to wake you in a couple hours. I know how hard you've been working, to make us look good in front of the Chief and Hizzoner," he admitted. "Now go get some sleep, before Fin comes in and accuses me of making you look like hell instead of just feeling like it."

"Thank you, sir – at least for the _sleep_. The rest of it's pretty cruel, if you ask me." She winked and he winked back, a smile on his face for the first time that day.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: VICAP 

"Okay, we've got a PowerPoint presentation on this laptop, with each person's section color-coded for the meeting," she explained to Cragen as the rest of the squad crowded around her desk.

"Everything on blue is for you, Cap, so you'll lead off," Zelman continued. "Then red for John's information, because we'll be covering our interaction with SWAT and we found out they'll be using a red background – and then I'll follow with the weapons forensics, which is all on a green background." She started to page through the presentation, slide by slide, each one ready for the War Room's interface to a large screen. Cragen was visibly impressed, as were the others.

"Pretty nice, Zelman," Stabler admitted. "Separating everything by color was a good idea, especially for Munch. But maybe his background should have been black or dark gray," he quipped. "But hey, he could always wear a red tie. Then it would be perfect."

She forced a tight smile. "Gee, thanks…I think," she shot back.

Munch studiously ignored Elliot; lately, El was grating on everyone and John suspected it was something that had to do with Kathy. Or, he simply hated Zelman and wasn't man enough to tell her to her face…yet. Either way, the threat of fireworks hung heavy in the air each time he interacted with Sarah.

Olivia looked at her partner and thought, _Stop baiting her all the time._ "It looks terrific and the Feds will burn with envy," Benson said admiringly. "We're going to shine. Some of those people will have nothing but a few notes scribbled on index cards, I'd bet. John…Sarah…great work."

They both said thank you and silently blessed Liv for her vocal support.

"Mind if I take that laptop into my office for a few minutes, so I can practice?" Don asked, realizing the presentation was making it very easy for SVU to look good in front of the brass. He was longing to show Zelman off in front of the Feds, because Benson had been right – status and visibility in front of Hizzoner and the Chief were on the line here.

"Be our guest," she said, closing the computer and handing it over to him. "All I ask is that we get a crack at it well before the meeting. I'm a little rusty on my public speaking and need some extra time to practice."

"Me, too," Munch chimed in. "If I need to compete with the Feds, I want some time in Study Hall."

"I won't be long," Cragen assured them, "don't worry. All I'm going to do is page through and get familiar with my section, then it's all yours." He looked from Sarah to John and brightened. "Great work here. You work together very well." They smiled ever so slightly.

Stabler opened his mouth to crack wise, but thought better of it. He was glad he and Olivia had been spared the public speaking detail, but part of him felt a little left out. He made a mental note to eavesdrop as Munch and Zelman practiced, so he could get a preview of the meeting.

Three hours later, everyone was assembled in the War Room, John and Sarah having almost memorized their part of the presentation. Munch had the laptop with him, in a soft carrying case, as he watched Chen sweep the room.

"Walter, want to sweep Zelman's personal laptop?" John asked, ready to set it up in a long queue of equipment.

"Actually, yes, if you don't mind," he replied. "I'm sweeping them all, since we've got time before the meeting. That's why I requested everyone come in early, before the Chief and Mayor arrive." He took the case from Munch and noticed Zelman's business card tag had been changed – to SVU. "Nice acquisition, John," he said, a smile on his face. "Congrats."

Munch caught his double-entendre and the corners of his mouth curled ever so slightly. "Thanks, but I can't take credit for it – Cragen's idea." They shared a discreet nod.

An hour later, everyone's equipment had been checked and the room had been cleared. The Chief escorted the Mayor into the room, followed by select members of SVU, the Secret Service, the U.S. Marshals' Service, the CIA, FBI and NYPD's SWAT, HazMat and bomb squads. Everyone took their seats as the Chief introduced the Mayor, mostly for the benefit of outside agencies.

Everyone was ready, having brought writing pads and pens; they would be taking plenty of notes. Each agency would share their task, and everything would be choreographed in hopes of having very few officers down. This particular VICAP mission carried much more risk than anyone had previously imagined.

The Mayor introduced the liaison from the Secret Service, who was first to interface his presentation to the big screen that filled the center of the wall. "I'll put it to everyone straight," he began. "After the untimely events at the World Trade Center, we've tracked a major al-Qaida cell to a small neighborhood in Queens. They're here to take out the President of the United States, on national television if they can, and that's why we've been so incredibly secretive about the purpose of this mission."

Despite the nature of the seasoned professionals in the room, he stopped as inadvertent gasps escaped from some of those assembled.

"We are here, because we're going to take out the cell," he said simply. "You were all given a hard target assignment, but until this time only a choice few of you knew whom we were going up against. The rest of you here are **_not_** to hold that secrecy against your coworkers and team members, but rather understand they were operating under a _directive_ from the Secret Service, CIA and FBI."

Munch glanced at Zelman and she had a look of solid steel on her face. _So she _had_ known_.

He knew Elliot would be furious, but there would be nothing that would appease him. Sarah had made a few references to some things in the presentation that Munch suspected had to do with a terrorist cell, but she hadn't tipped her hand in the slightest. There would be more to her presentation than even _he_ knew, and he was ready to take notes. Cragen had made Munch and Stabler team leaders, so they'd need to drop their feelings of having been left out and focus on what Zelman could tell them _now_.

The Chief of Police was introduced and took his place at the podium. "As you well know, Don Cragen is captain of the 16th Precinct, which will play an integral part in this operation. Everyone will be brought to the 16th and the 22nd for booking, and there will be _no_ mistakes made," the Chief asserted. "Translators will be available to Mirandize all collars, and your task is to make sure everyone is in fact Mirandized in their native language. We're not going to lose custody of terrorists, simply because you spoke English and they didn't understand their rights. This way, we ensure all collars are tight and will stand the test of apprehension and trial. Got it?"

Heads nodded in the affirmative; no one wanting to compromise the mission and risk the consequences. Not only would they be ripped by their lieutenant or captain for any mistakes, but it would be a real career-killer if they weren't exceedingly cautious with everyone they took into custody.

"And now, Captain Cragen will cover his part of SVU's presentation. Heads up, people, and take your best notes."

Cragen plugged Zelman's laptop into the main interface that tied it into the main screen. "SVU is standing in as proxy for ACS – the Administration of Children's Services, because they're not used to packing a piece for a firefight, and we fully expect to run rape kits on all the women and young children being held at the cell's location. Once we have established the scope of any sex crimes committed, we'll be releasing those victims to the proper precincts, depending upon their situation. Our hard-target searches include buildings one and two, and Team One and Team Two have been created to expedite the removal of the women and children before they can either dress in explosives to become human bombs, or to be disarmed and used as human shields or hostages.

"The SVU teams will enter each building after SWAT pulls the security windows and doors," Don Cragen continued. "SWAT will also breach the entry doors for us, and we'll be sending in teams complete with FBI translators and D.O. J. or NYPD officers for additional support. Expect a great deal of gunfire when we breach the entries. More on that later, when you hear from Detective Zelman.

"We're working closely with the two-two, to make sure we have plenty of booking space. Team One will be taking a van to the 16th, and Team Two will coordinate with the two-two for booking and sex crimes evaluation services. If they find any hint of sexual misconduct, they'll be sent over to our house – the 16th, and we'll process them accordingly and provide for their medical care as needed at area hospitals.

"HazMat and the bomb squad will also be participating in each team, in order to remove explosive ordnance from the potential hostages, and to dispose of anything found such as meth lab contents or additional hazardous materials which pose a risk to us and the neighborhood. Stick close to the house and its paved surfaces, because we don't know if they've land-mined the backyard or front. Unfortunately, we cannot evacuate the surrounding buildings as we'd like; it's too risky that this would tip off the cell.

"And now, Detective John Munch will be discussing dress code and ordnance requirements for this mission. Munch, it's all yours," Cragen said, taking his seat.

It hadn't gone unnoticed that everyone was visibly impressed with SVU's presentation on the laptop. He made a mental note to thank both detectives for making the Feds burn with envy. It was especially important that he congratulate Sarah, who'd proven herself an expert with PowerPoint and a genuine asset to his team of elite law enforcement personnel.

John took his place at the podium and clicked the laptop's PowerPoint files to his section of the presentation. "For those of you who may not know me, I'm Detective John Munch and soon you'll meet my partner, Detective Zelman."

He looked throughout the room and was relived that many of those he saw had already changed into darker clothes. "I'm here to cover dress code for this mission, starting with the request you all wear your heaviest boots and make sure you wear heavy gloves, but yet flexible enough that you're able to shoot your sidearms. Be sure and conceal a second piece, in case you need it – and carry enough clips for a heavy firefight. You've also been issued SEAL-quality blades, in case hand-to-hand combat becomes inevitable.

"Dress dark, and realize stealth is one of our greatest advantages. Absolutely no suits are to be worn during this mission, so leave your Armani and Brook's Brothers best at home." He waited for the nervous chuckles to subside. "Begin with a dark t-shirt, then put an unmarked vest over it. If you need a heavier vest, come see me or Captain Cragen. We still have some extra vests from the Department of Justice and they're very heavy.

"You are instructed – make that _required_ – to cover your vest with a dark sweatshirt or heavy t-shirt, because the more you blend into darkness, the better off you will be. Anything marking you as NYPD or another agency will basically label you a hostage, and we can't guarantee rescue. If your gun is black, in a dark holster, all the better. Clip on your handcuffs so they won't see the gleam of metal and single you out as law enforcement personnel. If you have a dark gun, instead of a show-piece in gleaming chrome or steel, bring the dark one and be ready to use it," he coached.

"We'll be providing you with a variety of older cars, because we don't want any new unmarked or marked units blowing our cover on this mission, so leave the uniforms and suits at home and dress in casual clothing – like I said, the darker the better. We have given you a list of your motor pool assignments, the time you're supposed to depart and the time in which your part of the VICAP recon will commence. You also know with whom you'll be working, if you review and follow your notes. We're all expert professionals here that I know I won't have to reiterate any of that."

He looked at Sarah and introduced her. "Detective Zelman has the dubious task of explaining explicitly what we will be up against, insofar as weaponry and the type of fighting we will encounter. She's coordinated with Dr. Huang to give us a very detailed profile of the al-Quaida terrorists we'll encounter." He paused, "Detective Zelman, you're up." He took a seat and prepared to take a sheath of notes.

Sarah stood and walked over to the podium, queuing up her part of the VICAP presentation. "You've seen the beheadings, so I'll spare you the video I'd brought along as part of my presentation. My purpose here is to impress upon you all that each one of you represents a trophy, to be tortured for days on end until you spill your guts – and believe me, you will if you're captured – and then you'll be beheaded. This will be filmed and played on endless loop in the media and on the Internet, where your friends and relatives will not be able to escape it. No one wants that, of course, so be willing to use your firearms – but shoot to wound, not to kill. We want every one of the people in this mission to come out of it alive, which not only puts pressure on us for no officers down, but pressures us to not kill any of our potential hostages. And hostages they are, until we get them into the D.O.J., FBI and NYPD systems.

"Aside from all the firearms they have access to, they also wield a weapon they've taken from the Turks and Kurds – the _falcata_. It's a curved blade with a double-point at the end. She drew a picture of one on the whiteboard, and made them aware of what could do. The point of the weapon is used for evisceration, and the main blade is like a super-sharpened machete – to behead or to rapidly lop off extremities. All the men have been trained to use these, so expect to see them and avoid them at all costs. If someone comes at you swinging one, shoot to wound, and _do not_ wait.

"I cannot stress enough that they are out to count collected heads. These people are barbaric in the extreme, even though they have learned quickly how to seamlessly assimilate themselves into out ways and culture. They are young, somewhat reckless, and will literally fight to the death – or until we apprehend them," she continued.

"Speak in ten-code as much as possible and do not allow any extra chatter on the police frequencies, because they're using scanners, cell phones and any kind of e-mail or mobile technology they can get their hands on. We want a mission that's as rapid, surprising and quiet as absolutely possible," she warned. "If you absolutely need something, contact TARU and Fin, who will be coordinating every agency's movements from the tech-center – a van which you'll see has pulled up first."

"The FBI and Department of Justice are here to help us with collars, so don't be ashamed or afraid to ask for help. Make sure your metal's tight when you cuff these people, and be sure you have a translator with you when you read them their Miranda rights. We want everyone – especially the guy whose photo you've all memorized: the one who's out to kill the President. First one to collar him gets a special commendation medal, so there's your incentive."

She scanned the crowd for anyone who may not have heard everything, giving them all a few moments to complete their notes. "Questions, anyone?" She waited. "No? Then best of luck to you all tonight. Let's do this thing and get it done right."

The Chief leaned over to Cragen and smiled, "Your spending my money very well, Donnie. Another excellent acquisition from the Feds; I'm impressed."

Cragen thanked his superior officer and allowed himself to smile. As he'd hoped, the other agencies were burning with green-eyed envy, having wished they'd lured Zelman away from the NYPD when they'd had the opportunity.

He made a mental note to buy Benson and Munch a steak dinner when the VICAP mission was behind them.

Last but not least, the Secret Service and CIA explained how they'd be protecting the President and Vice President during the VICAP mission. They were responsible for getting them both to separate but equally safe off-sites, guarding them with a plethora of suited agents until the evening's proceedings had been completed by the other agencies.

With that, the meeting ended, with everyone on the same page – all knowing their hard-target assignments and ready to follow through without hesitation.

Don's elite SVU squad reconvened downstairs, crowding into Cragen's office, after TARU made a sweep. Stabler was the first to speak up. "Okay, how long had you known – and why were you holding out on us? Can't you trust us? We're trying to trust _you_," he added hotly, "but this makes it a lot harder." He folded his arms across his chest and glared at Sarah, his blue eyes narrowed.

Cragen was about to remind him of the meeting, what the Secret Service had said, but Zelman waved him off. "It's understandable that you're all angry with me, and I'm sorry," she said simply.

"I _do_ trust everyone in this department, but I was under a strict directive – to share data would have meant blowing the cover of other agencies. Captain Cragen knew, too, and he also had a directive to fire me immediately if anything leaked," she explained. "Keep in mind, the FBI still has me under some pretty intense scrutiny. Again, I'm sorry I couldn't tell anyone…or I _would_ have."

"That's the truth people," Cragen asserted. "I had to go along with it, too, even though I knew _none_ of you would let anything leak. I couldn't take the chance of losing Zelman back to the Feds – or, in this case, seeing her tried for treason if the VICAP mission was compromised in any way."

"'Tried for _treason'_?" Stabler asked. "I had no idea it was quite that serious, Zelman."

"Yeah, well, _I_ did," she snapped, tiring of Stabler's attitude. "I don't know what else you want from me, Elliot, so you'll have to settle for the honest truth."

"Fair enough. You're forgiven…for now." He turned and walked out of the room without additional comment. His silence spoke volumes.

Olivia looked at the slammed door and debated going after him, but knew it would be fruitless. "I understand," she said sincerely. "Don't worry about El, it'll all be okay with time."

"Thanks, Olivia," Sarah said. "I'm sorry I had to sell out, but it was the only course of action I could take."

"'Sell out'?" Munch asked. "How so?"

"I allowed the Feds to put me in a situation where my team didn't come first, where I had to be a traitor and lie, to pretend I didn't know anything," she said miserably. "To me, that's selling out."

"No, that's doing what you're told and keeping your Captain out of trouble," Cragen said. "And John will back me up on that, won't you?" he asked pointedly.

"I will," Munch agreed without hesitation. "Sarah, you didn't sell anyone out," he said softly. "You did the right thing. If anyone has questions, refer them to me or Cap. We'll help you handle it." He watched her nod, her face almost the color of paste.

She looked to those who remained in the room. "Fin? Go ahead, take your shot," she said. "Might as well say what's on your mind."

"Hey, girlfriend, I got no problem with how you handled this," he said. "You did what you were told to do. You got nothin' to prove to anyone." He reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. "You keep secrets well and we need that here." She shrugged and tried to smile, but failed.

"Okay, you're all off-duty until tomorrow at three p.m., when we reconvene in the War Room for one last briefing – then it's VICAP time. Go over your notes and then hand them off to me," he instructed. "I want them all in my safe before you leave this evening. Olivia, go get Elliot's notes and tell him I want to see him, please? Remind him he's not in trouble," Cragen added softly. "I just need him on the same page with everyone else."

"Amen to that," John said, as he opened the door to Cragen's office and steered Sarah through. "Once more with the notes, then we'll call it a day."

"Let's grab some dinner," John offered, as Sarah got into the unmarked and latched her seatbelt. "You'll feel better if you eat something," he coaxed. "C'mon…"

"I'm not good company tonight, John." Her mind was still on the meeting and its aftermath. "If I could crawl under a rock, I would." A wry laugh escaped her lips.

"We're going to dinner," he decided. "and you're going to eat. Then we're going to my place for the night." Once he had her in a comfortable environment, he could help ease the pressure off. He could get her back on track and ready for tomorrow night.

"You're the boss." She forced a smile. "As long as it's not TacoRama, I'll have dinner with you."

"Awwww…you ruined the surprise," he shot back, glancing over at her smile. "Seriously, Zelman, it's going to be okay. But you have to believe me and trust me on this one."

"I do," she said simply. She wondered if her answers held any credibility for anyone at this point. "It will all be fine, John…just fine. We'll make it through the mission and then I can go head to head with Elliot and get everything resolved."

"That's my girl," he said. "El's okay; he'll come around soon enough." He was glad to see the color was slowly returning to her face. His guts knotted, knowing how she felt facing off with the entire squad, not being able to read their thoughts, wondering if she would be frozen out. "No crawling under rocks?"

"Nope. Can't afford to – too much riding on VICAP."

"Exactly. But tonight, we relax," he reminded her. "We'll stop by your place first, so you can grab a few things…then you'll stay with me. I don't want you being alone tonight."

"Why not?" she asked, perplexed.

"Because I want you near me," he replied. _So I can manage the emotional fallout,_ he thought. "I'd just rather you spent the night at my place, so I know you're safe."

She couldn't argue with his logic. God knows she'd tried so many times. "Okay. It's your place tonight," she said softly. "Thanks, John." She wanted to be near him, too, especially before they faced off with an al-Qaida cell.

"Anytime, Sarah…anytime."

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Before the Dawn 

That night, John called Sarah into his bedroom and gave her the combination to his gun safe. It was bolted to the closet floor with lag-bolts, to dissuade anyone from trying to breach it or steal it. He had more than one gun, loaded and ready at all times. "Open it, " he said.

"Let me get my Glock and I'll put it in," she said, thinking he wanted her to stow her ordnance. She was glad it was a larger safe; it could hold plenty of guns, including hers.

"Not now… Just…humor me and open it," he insisted, watching her carefully with those deep brown eyes of his.

She shrugged and did as she was told. Inside, boxed, was a brand new nine-mill Glock, cleaned, oiled and ready to fire. Next to the safe was a new ammo canister, with 10 clips pre-loaded with the correct ammunition. "John? I don't – "

"It's _yours_," he explained. "I get a deep discount through the department and wanted you to start carrying a nine-mill as soon as possible. After all, you qualified with one." Once she was officially hired, she had qualified with a nine-mill Glock – his.

She hoisted the piece and it felt so good in her hand. "You have to let me reimburse you for this, though, please." It was a beauty of a sidearm, silky matte black with a holster that matched her others exactly. He had a copy of the paperwork for her, too; he'd arranged for it to be registered to her. He could pull strings with the best of them.

"It's my gift to you… Not merely for the VICAP recon, but to keep you safe on the streets."

She kissed him deeply. "Thank you," she said, grateful for such an extravagant and meaningful gift. In some ways, it meant even more to her than the earrings he'd gifted her with not that long ago. "I love it. It will be my lucky charm."

"I'm glad you like it, and no…you can't reimburse me for it. It's a present." He kissed her, going for a record-breaker. "I want you to be safe, more than anything."

"With this, I will be." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you, John."

"I love you, too, Sarah." They stowed their guns and he led her to his bed. He loved to simply look at her, as she gazed at him. They held hands, interlacing their fingers. He brought her down to him in another kiss. He had once thought a woman named Felicia was his soul mate, so many years ago in Baltimore, but now he wondered if he'd saved his true soul mate from certain death in the World Trade Center. He'd given up on love for so long, and yet now it had found him…found them both.

Moments later, John and Sarah made love with a passion and desperation previously unparalleled. They held tight to each other for hours, until they'd drifted into deep, almost dreamless sleep.

Sarah held a fragment of a partial dream, in which "November Rain" played like a soundtrack to her thoughts. She couldn't shake the song, so much so that it woke her. She went to the window, looked out and felt as if the melody and lyrics were on continuous loop. _Was there a message here for both her and John? Was it about tomorrow night's VICAP recon?_ All she knew was, instead of the comfort the song had given her – it had played in her head while she was hospitalized – now it had an ominous aspect to it, which disturbed her deeply.

She hadn't heard John slip out of bed and stand by her side. She jumped at his touch. "You scared me," she said, trembling. He wrapped his arms around her and gently rocked her from side to side.

"What's up? You usually sleep like a baby after we've made love, but tonight seemed different," he admitted. "You're not having second thoughts about us, are you?"

"Never have had, never will," she said, as they held each other. "How about you?"

"Same. Never have had, never will," he whispered into her ear.

"It's good to know neither of us is walking away," she said softly.

"What do you mean?" He was a bit perplexed, but occasionally he didn't quite catch on until she explained her more obscure references to him.

She reached over to the nightstand on her side of the bed, picked up the remote for his CD system and held it. "I was just thinking about a song, by Guns & Roses," she explained. "November Rain."

He went to a CD rack in the other room, pulled their 'best of' disk and put it in the player. "That's one of my favorites, too," he admitted. "Yes, John Munch has a heavy metal and rock streak in him that he keeps well-hidden," he admitted. "Now you know." He took the remote from her hand, pressed 'play' and the room filled with a piano introduction that was startling in its simple beauty.

"Have you ever really listened to it?" she asked him. At her place, she kept it queued up lately, it was so relevant for her. Plaintive piano, Axl Rose's anguished vocals and Slash's ringing guitar played softly throughout the room. _But the lyrics…tonight they were more relevant than John could ever comprehend._

_**When I look into your eyes, I can see a love restrained.**_

_**But darlin' when I hold you, don't you know I feel the same?**_

_**But nothing lasts forever and we both know hearts can change,**_

_**And it's hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain.**_

_**We've been through this such a long, long time**_

_**Just trying to kill the pain. Oh, yeah…**_

_**Lovers always come and, lovers always go,**_

_**And no one's really sure who's letting go today –**_

_**And walking away.**_

_**If we could take the time to lay it on the line,**_

_**I could rest my head just knowing that you are mine.**_

_**All mine.**_

_**So, if you want to love me, then darlin' don't refrain.**_

_**Or, I'll just end up walking in the cold November rain.**_

_**Do you need some time on your own?**_

_**Do you need some time all alone?**_

_**Everybody needs some time on their own.**_

_**Don't you know you need some time all alone?**_

_**I know it's hard to keep an open heart, **_

_**When even 'friends' seem out to harm you -- **_

_**But if you could ease that broken heart, **_

_**Wouldn't Time be out to charm you?**_

_**Sometimes, I need some time on my own.**_

_**Sometimes, I need some time all alone.**_

_**Everybody needs some time on their own.**_

_**Don't you know you need some time all alone?**_

_**And when your fears subside and shadows still remain,**_

_**I know that you can love me when there's no one left to blame.**_

_**So, never mind the darkness, we still can find a way.**_

_**Nothing lasts forever, even cold November Rain.**_

_**Don't you think that you need somebody?**_

_**Don't you think that you need someone?**_

_**Everybody needs somebody.**_

_**You're not the only one.**_

_**You're not the only one…**_

_**Everybody needs somebody.**_

"It was in my dream."

He kissed her gently. "We do love each other without restraint, Sarah. But is it more than that? Do we both need some time on our own?" He was afraid she'd say they did; that they had somehow become too close and breached each other's boundaries too easily.

"No, John…that's not it. That's not it at all."

"Then what?" He knew she was afraid; he could feel her fear in the air, like a fog around them both. Of all the times not to be afraid, this was one of the most vital. But how could he argue with what she felt? They were partners in the most profound sense; her intuition and his logic made them function as a whole.

"Had a bad dream, that was all… That I was all alone." She pulled away from him ever so slightly and looked out the large expanse of window again. The city lights were beautiful, but how many perps were in their midst down out there, destroying the beauty and making it something heinous?

"One of us died, didn't we?" he asked. "In your dream. It was my time, wasn't it?"

She shook her head and the tears started to flow. "Like the song says, 'Everybody needs somebody. Everybody needs someone.' The someone I need is _you_." She continued to cry, silently, tears tracking down her cheeks again faster than he could gently wipe them away. Her breathing was ragged, as fear flowed through her uncontrollably. "John…"

"Shhhhh…." John ached for her; for every tear that flowed, ten thousand more were bottled up inside her.He steered her back to the bed and turned off the music, as she sat down. "I'll be right back." While she had gotten a few things together at her place, he had taken the bottle of Xanax out of her lingerie drawer, sure she'd need some after the day's extreme stress. He'd left it on the nightstand; she hadn't said anything but knew it was there. And why he'd brought it. He poured two into his hand and went for a glass of water.

She hung her head in her hands. It hadn't been as hard when Stranahan followed his son into the U.S. Marshals – Danny's 'heart had changed' – but it hadn't been all that reassuring, either. Now, she'd finally found someone she considered a soul mate, of sorts, and she feared it was about to all fall apart.

"Take these, sweetheart," he directed her. She did what she was told and shared the glass of water with him. "C'mon, Sarah, it'll all be fine. It was just a bad dream."

"Are you sure, or are you patronizing me to get me back into your bed?" she asked, forcing a small smile.

"Seriously, sweetie – it was only a bad dream. You've been over-planning again. Your subconscious mind won't let go, even though it needs to do so." _And the last thing you need is a PTSD breakdown, right before we go into battle with al-_ _Qaida,_ he thought, afraid for her, but not willing to second-guess her ability to pull it together for the sake of everyone.

"Yeah, honey," she admitted, "you're probably right. Let's get some sleep, especially since we can sleep in tomorrow." They had the day off until 3:00 p.m. when a final VICAP meeting would take place in the War Room and then everyone would take their places for the potential all-nighter. Sarah prayed to God that His place for John wasn't anywhere but by her side, before and after everything came down tomorrow night.

Or, worst-case scenario, if John Munch bought it, she would, too. Both Carolyn and Danny wouldn't like it, but ultimately they would understand.

_Is 'time really out to charm us'?_ she wondered, as she fell asleep in John Munch's strong arms, the Xanax starting to kick in.

Chapter Thirty: Cell Search 

Walter Chen swept the War Room a final time, as key personnel from the sixteenth assembled silently. Cragen stepped up and simply said, "This is it, folks. John and Sarah are going to give us all a quick reminder of a few key issues. Five p.m. starts 'zero hour' and we roll out, in the order you've been given." He looked to Munch. "John," he said, "you're up."

Munch rose to his feet and went to the front of the room, as Cragen sat in the front row, watching and listening. "Like our Captain said," he began, "we're approaching 'zero hour.' First off, Tutuola will be in the tech van with Chen, coordinating the arrival and departure of all vehicles – especially SWAT, EMS and the bomb squad. He'll also be coordinating the two primary vans, to get potential hostages to booking, here at the 16th. No talking over police radios with _anyone_ in the van unless it's _vital_, because we want voice traffic kept to a minimum. _The enemy can hear us – they have the scanners, the same cell-phone pickups, everything._ If you do have to use a radio, try to keep to ten-code and keep your voices low – or as low as you can in the gunfire."

He wrote that on the whiteboard, then added a second point. "Also, be very aware of what you're wearing. This cannot be stressed enough, people. Wear an undershirt and then your vest, topped with another shirt – a dark one. If you're wearing anything with the NYPD designation on it, go ahead and give yourself over as a hostage right now, because you're marked," he said bluntly.

"There should be absolutely no markings on your vests or jackets to identify you as SWAT, NYPD, or anyone official. Black vests only – if you don't have heavy enough vests, come see Cragen and he'll set you up. We have plenty of extras from the D.O.J., so there's no excuse not to be safe.

"If you haven't done so already, take the time you need to clean your sidearms and load extra clips to carry. Your primary should be nothing less than a nine-mill, heavier if you're qualified – but shoot only to wound, unless it's life or death. We want these people in custody, not in the Coroner's van. Don't forget to carry more than one piece, either. Understood?"

He looked from face to face, studying each one. "Questions?" No one raised their hand. "Okay, I'll presume you've all got it."

He gestured to his partner. "Zelman, come on up. You all know my current partner, Detective Sarah Zelman, who used to be FBI."

She rose and he took his seat as she went up to the front of the room. "I was happy to see a lot of you sparring with your partners, working out your hand-to-hand combat skills in the gym downstairs, because those skills will serve you well if it comes down to that," she began.

"Be aware, however, that these people know they're short on battle skills and they'll be more apt to shoot you. They tend to 'spray and pray,' with automatic weapons fire, but they can also do some serious damage with the Russian guns and ammo they keep on hand. They work out with their weapons almost as much as we do, so don't think they can't be accurate – despite what you may have heard," she continued.

"Munch covered dress codes for this mission, and I cannot reiterate his warnings enough. Your biggest danger is in becoming a hostage, or inadvertently placing you and your partner in danger or you both being abducted. When it comes to hostages, these terrorists _do not_ play – they _will_ behead you, after a lengthy session of almost unimaginable torture," she said emphatically, watching faces grow pale.

"If you think I'm joking or simply blowing everything out of proportion, you can reacquaint yourselves with the documents I've already passed around. I hope you did your reading. We want as few officers down as possible, so be aware of your surroundings and how many al-Qaida you have around you. They prefer to bring down personnel by collaborating in small packs, attacking from the front and flanks simultaneously, making sure you have no means of escape.

"We will not be in a position to save you, if you're down, so be willing to seek the aid of anyone available – any _agency_ available – and fight like _hell_ to save yourself and your partner. Do whatever you have to do, but try not to use kill-shots, because we want as many of these people in custody as possible. But remember this: You will _not_ get a second chance, if they abduct you," she assured them.

"Aside from that, good luck everyone. Any final questions?" She scanned the room, carefully examining each face for questions unasked. "Okay, then, we're good to go."

Cragen came to the front again, as Zelman sat next to Munch. "You heard it people, be ready for a long night of fighting and review the photos here. These are the major players we need to apprehend, especially the leader who wants to take our President. Nothing would make me – or the Chief and the Mayor – prouder than to see NYPD make the top-collar bust," he asserted.

"Lastly, remember that all fired guns will be reviewed by IAB, but they understand the scope of this mission, so you don't need to worry as much as you normally would. They're expecting a firefight as much as we are. If you fire your piece during the mission, surrender it to me. I'll take it through the IAB process and that shouldn't take long. They certainly can't afford to have you all on desk duty, so the processing will be relatively swift.

"Having said that, relax and review until five o'clock and then take your designated positions. Good luck – to us all."

Daniel Stranahan saw a familiar number come up on the caller I.D. of his cell phone, as it vibrated in his pocket. "Stranahan," he answered softly, not wanting to alert Jack that he had a personal call. "Hey…" He knew who it was before a word was spoken.

"It's me," Sarah said softly. "Just wanted to wish you and Jack 'good luck' tonight."

"Same to you and John," he replied. "You have time to talk for a bit?" he asked, hoping she did. At times like this, right before a mission, he missed her greatly. They called each other when they could, but more so than not, calls were few and far between.

"I wish there was more time, but I need to review my notes and get with SWAT's captain for a few minutes. Anything I need to know?"

"Yeah, actually there is," he replied. "Be careful. I know you can take care of yourself and your partner, and that he can take care of you, too…but I'm concerned."

"About his abilities or mine?"

"Neither – about _theirs_." He knew she'd be fast on the draw-down if she had to be, but he'd seen the evidence of what happened to people who weren't. He didn't want the image or either Zelman or Munch making Internet history as the enemy gloated about their captives and what they'd done to them.

"John and I will both be extremely careful, Danny… You and Jack will do the same," she said, knowing they'd protect each other well.

"Hey, Sarah?" he said, hesitating.

"Yes?"

"Uh…you know," he said firmly. "Right?"

_His code for 'You know, I love you.'_ "I know. You know, too, don't you?" she asked.

"Yeah. _More than you realize_." He heard a last-minute meeting starting to convene. "Damn. I have to go. Good luck tonight."

"You guys, too – see you later," she said quickly and hung up. As deeply as she loved John Munch, she still couldn't entirely kick her mentor and ex-boyfriend. He still had his own, but very different, hold on her heart.

Five o'clock came and they went to their vehicles, rolling out in an oddly-timed order, so they didn't attract undue attention in the small neighborhood of multistory brownstones and other houses. The key was to have everyone in place as the cell sat down for their communal evening meal, after prayer services. Everyone would be assembled around tables, in one room – it was then the action would begin.

Six-eighteen came and John started the older model Chevy. "Ready for this?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "Got all your clips?"

"Yes and yes," Sarah answered with a sigh. "Let's do this." She felt ready, more so than she had in days.

"My sentiments exactly," Munch replied confidently, driving toward an unsuspecting neighborhood in Queens.

Chapter Thirty-One: Chasing the Cell 

It started like any other bust, be it a meth lab or a cocaine dealer with a multi-million dollar stash, but that was all it had in common with other crimes, because these people had been expecting discovery. They were not only ready, they had rehearsed for the time when the authorities would shatter their plans. These al-Qaida had vowed a jihad on anyone who stood in the way of their success.

SWAT pulled windows and screened security doors from both buildings' first stories while the terrorists grabbed the guns that were never far out of reach, even during meals. Women and children ran to the stairs, up into the second floor bedrooms to garb themselves in explosives, to act as shields for the men who regarded them as little more than chattel.

Yelling could be heard in both English and Arabic, with a few phrases uttered in Farsi to some of the women. High-powered rifle fire could be heard, as the CIA and FBI took their places around the house and uniformed officers settled in against the exterior walls between the two structures.

Law enforcement saw the defined red of laser scopes and knew they'd be facing off with thirty-thirties and thirty-ought-six rifles. AK-47 and M-16 fire could also be heard; these were the initial warning shots the terrorists fired, a round of 'spray and pray' but they were a waste of ammunition – everyone knew this was the real deal.

No warnings were needed; this cell would fight until apprehension or death, trying to take out as many law enforcement personnel with them as they possibly could. To these men, death was martyrdom and they were looking forward to their version of the afterlife.

Munch and Zelman wasted no time. They both nodded, and Munch yelled "Hit it!" as SWAT broke open the solid mahogany entry door with a heavy slammer bar. "Go! Go! Go!" Munch yelled, as SWAT led the team into the house. Once inside, they moved rapidly toward the stairs, to locate women and children. Gunshots were exchanged as they entered, with four terrorists falling from wounds as others crawled forward in the volley.

Speed and the element of surprise helped see to it that SVU Team One made it quickly upstairs, followed almost on their heels by an FBI translator and more agents who took down additional terrorists. Team One discovered women placing vests on children as young as five and no older than twelve or thirteen.

Guns pulled, each detective, cop and agent leveled their weapon and yelled to the women and children to stop what they were doing and place their hands above their heads. The translator repeated it, rifle in hand, leveled at one of the women who didn't stop what she was doing. Munch snapped a new clip into his gun, which got her full attention. They all started chattering at once, as they were told to lie down on the floor one by one, after an explosives expert took off their vests and other personnel stepped forward to cuff each of them.

Without explosives, they no longer held their weight as human weapons or shields. But they were still in danger of being used as hostages, until they could be evacuated.

"Too much gunfire below to take them down the stairs," Munch decided. "We're going to have to see if there's another way."

"They'd have a way to get out from up here – the fire escape," Zelman reasoned, gesturing toward the closed-in tube style escape the older building had.

"We'll have to have it secured first, then put them down one by one," Munch said, "From there, into the vans." John got on the police radio and requested someone from SWAT secure the fire escape from below, that they had potential hostages to evacuate into the vans. He felt like he was in an almost untenable situation, because just getting the women and children into the vans was like moving them a world away – and then to get them safely to the sixteenth precinct was another hurdle in itself.

The voice on the other end of the police radio asked his location and confirmed that the fire escape had not only been secured, but a van was parked close enough that the women and children could be somewhat shielded from cross-fire as they were escorted to safety. The translator explained it all tersely; yet more chatter broke out as they worried for themselves and the safety of their children. "Silence!" the translator said in Arabic. "One by one – right now! Hurry!"

She slid down first, holding a child. She knew she'd be needed at the bottom, to coach each one of them away from their captors and into the van. They had been conditioned to do as their men told them, but that conditioning worked against them once each was captured by police and Federal agents.

After the translator and child were safely on the ground, Munch and Zelman helped each potential hostage into the fire escape and downward toward what they fervently hoped was safety. They continued, trying to stay as low as possible, as each room was searched by a team of uniforms, led by a SWAT member. Yells of "Clear!" filled the air, as each room was searched thoroughly, every closet, every trunk, each possible hiding place until the second floor was emptied.

Another team came up at that point, ready for action on the third floor, but surprised to find nothing but empty classroom space. They started to collect every document, bagging evidence as fast as they could, as more evidence bags were brought up by additional uniformed officers.

Munch and Zelman had completed their primary task and would leave collecting evidence to the team in charge of that job. Munch looked at the fire escape. "C'mon, Zelman, let's go. The stairs are still too risky." He slid against the egress opening and saw the van pulling away, being peppered with shots. "I hope they made it out. We don't have the van for cover – they're off."

"At least they got away… Let's do this thing," Zelman asserted. "Who's first?"

"Me," John said. "I'll cover you from below." He saw the look on her face and said, "No time for second-thoughts. I'll need you at my back," he added, giving her reason to follow.

"As if I'd hesitate. I've got your back," she promised, weapon drawn. "Go."

He slipped into the fire escape and down, listening as Zelman followed. He ducked, got out and grabbed her sleeve. They were going to make a run for the second house, in case Benson and Stabler needed backup.

Five strides from the fire escape and Sarah heard John yell, "Down, now!" They hit the alley's paved surface as gunfire was suddenly all around them. _They were pinned._ He wanted to cover her, but she was at least a foot or two away from him, her head down and covered by her hands. She glanced over at him; he was thinking of a way to get them to safety, she could tell.

Munch looked around, saw a security-screened door that had been pulled by SWAT and motioned toward the doorway. They kept low, had their backs against the building and in what seemed an eternity made their way into the space. It was showered in broken glass and splintered wood; both were glad they'd worn heavy boots and gloves.

"Zelman, I'm hit," John said, wincing. He kicked debris out of the way and slid down the wall of the entryway.

Sarah's heart actually skipped a beat when she heard those words. "Where and how bad?" she asked, trying to keep her voice low and even.

"My shoulder…a shot went through the seam of the vest." His gloved hand went to his shoulder and was immediately stained with blood. His other hand was tight on his gun.

"Okay, let's get you through this," Zelman said, kneeling down carefully and taking off her shirt. "I'm going to make a pressure dressing and you're going to have to stay with me. No fair passing out. Understood?"

"I can't promise this time," he said, shaking his head. "Feels like it was rifle fire."

"I know; probably was…hang in there, John. It's going to be okay…trust me." She ripped his shirt where the bullet had passed through fabric, then released the Velcro on his vest. "Breathe out as completely as you can…now." As he did, she shoved the hastily folded fabric of her shirt against his wound and refastened the Velcro as tightly as possible.

She'd holstered her Glock as she tended to John; suddenly the solid wood side door yanked open and she felt metal against her head. It was warm; a gun that had been recently fired and now rested against her temple. The smell of gunpowder filled her senses and she froze. _I'm so fucked,_ she thought ruefully. _He's got me and my partner now. Oh, God… I'm sorry, John. _

Her peripheral vision realized the terrorist was reaching for her with his other hand. _The al-Qaida who wanted to kill the President, _she thought, recognizing him. She was about to become his hostage – a trophy, to behead later and parade before his people and the press. _If he takes me, Munch can escape,_ she thought, having made her peace with God eons ago. _Do it and be done._ She said a silent prayer that Munch would get to his feet and get the hell out of there – fast.

With a gasp, she felt John's boot square in her gut as she was kicked backward and smacked her head against the opposite wall so hard she saw stars. Before she could react, she saw two muzzle flashes as the terrorist's gun had gone off almost simultaneously with John's nine-mill. _Oh, God no…not a second hit,_ she thought frantically, wondering how she'd ever get him to safety.

She was deafened temporarily but managed to choke out a yell. _"Munch!"_

"I'm okay, Zelman – no second hit," he assured her. "But we have to get out of here now!" He looked into the opened doorway and saw the man moving, but with a gunshot wound to slow him until he could be cuffed by another agency. He saw a familiar Bureau face, cuffs in hand, and knew the man would be in custody momentarily. _"Munch, you did it, man – you got number two on the FBI's Most Wanted!"_ the agent yelled. He nodded, "As long as I get credit for the collar," he called out. He knew Sarah would make sure he did.

"Let's get you to EMS, Munch," Sarah said. "Thanks for saving us both," she added, wondering when her gut and head would stop aching, but grateful he'd kicked her out of the way of enemy fire. Because of John's quick thinking, neither of them would be hostages.

He nodded. "I knew you had your hands full with me. Sorry I had to kick you, it was the only way," he said, hoping she could hear him. _"Son of a bitch!"_ he yelped, wincing again in pain.

She put her hand against his mouth. "Quiet," she hissed. "I know you're hurting like hell, but we can't tip them off again," she whispered in his ear. There was still so much gunfire, she hoped he'd heard her. "We have to get you to EMS _right now_. Can you make it?" She was ready to carry him through a field of broken glass, if that's what it took. This was the man who had just saved her life.

"I don't have any choice," he said softly. He clicked on the police radio and she gave the code for their location and 'officer down.' They used the side of the entryway to slide upward to stand. As she steadied him, she saw Fin had sent the EMS unit into position, and they both worried it was too far away. He was already growing pale from blood loss; she saw blood had seeped through the pressure dressing. She pulled off her gloves, holding them against his shoulder. "Let's go. We're going to trot for it. Ready?" She watched as he holstered his gun. She had hers at the ready once more.

"Go!" he said, trotting with her toward the EMS unit that was already missing a back window and had light showing through holes in the back doors. She covered him as best she could, hearing his labored breathing as they got to the unit. "Get in – I'll cover you," she said, as he swung open the door. He was holding her gloves against his wound with one hand, struggling with his other to get into the unit. She turned around to face away from the mobile intensive care unit and looked down. There was a red laser scope light aimed directly at her heart. Munch saw it, too. "Zelman, down! _Now!"_

"Get him inside and go!" _Because I'm finally screwed,_ she thought. _My luck has run out._ She stood her ground and didn't budge. Nor would she until she knew John was out of immediate danger. He'd lost enough blood that getting into the unit was almost too much for him.

She tried to locate the source of the scope in the growing darkness, but it was useless. The marker wasn't moving. Once the trigger was pulled, her left atrium would be blown apart. Death would be almost instantaneous. _Make it quick,_ she prayed silently, _and don't let John see me go out._

Someone in the darkness from al-Qaida was reloading and getting ready to take her out. Sarah hoped her vest would hold, but knew it was probably too much to ask of a few layers of Kevlar. "Munch, go! Dammit, I don't have all night!" A paramedic pulled him into the unit and she heard multiple shots pulled off as she dove to the ground so hard it hurt.

She was wondering if she'd been hit, because the fire stopped abruptly. "Got you, you son of a bitch!" she heard a male voice yell. _Stranahan_. He'd broken the rules and used a night-vision scope on his rifle. He pulled off the shot that saved her life, while she'd covered her partner. This time, she owed Danny her life. Especially since he could be ripped by his people for not playing by the rules. The end justified the means.

Sarah heard EMS hit the sirens and knew it was bad; they were only supposed to use sirens as a last resort. John had lost a lot of blood, despite her best efforts. He was probably in shock, but she had to push him to the back of her mind.

Munch had dropped the police radio next to where the back doors of the EMS unit had been, and she picked it up. "SVU Unit Two, complete?" It was the code to find out if they needed help. _No response_. Either Stabler and Benson were also pinned or they hadn't heard her in the firefight that had finally started to lose full momentum.

Her vest was a liability, it made her too blatantly a target, but there was nothing she could do about it. Zelman crouched and then made a run for it, to the next house. Without John, she'd have to finish up solo. _No van._ That was a good sign. Stabler and Benson had gotten the women and children out, hopefully with as much ease as she and Munch had in the adjacent building.

Her next priority was getting out of sight and getting something dark over her vest, before she led the remaining terrorists toward her colleagues. A Crown Vic was parked nearby, with its trunk open. She ran to it, crouched to make sure she wasn't targeted again and ransacked it. A fleece-lined windbreaker was inside…black. She grabbed it and yanked it on, snapping it closed. No wonder it hadn't been used; it was uncomfortably tight on her, most of the windbreakers were much larger. She snapped her last full clip into her Glock and entered the house, sweeping low, the police radio in her left hand.

"Zelman, we're clear," she heard from the stairs.

"Good. I'll see who needs metal," she said, carefully moving outside again. At this point, a police helicopter was using its NightSun lighting to illuminate the entire area. Those who weren't in cuffs and on the ground were in the process of giving up, doing what they were told now that they were clearly defeated. She cuffed a couple of suspects and recited their Miranda rights, making sure a translator repeated them in Arabic. There would be no mistakes made in the legal process this night, of such each officer of the law would ensure.

She saw the Stranahans loading suspects into marked police cars for transport. Danny saw her and walked over. "Thanks for taking the shot, Danny. I owe you, big time," she said gratefully.

"Anytime, darlin'" he said lightly. "Glad I could help." She shook hands with him, handing off the radio to him as well. It had been marked D.O.J. and everyone would eventually have to account for their equipment. He looked at her a long moment and she knew they had been both the best and the worst for each other, but because of his skill as a marksman she was still alive. "You should find Cragen and get to the hospital – bet Munch will be happy to see you."

"Yeah, well, at least he _will_ see me now," she quipped, slapping Danny playfully on the shoulder. "Good mission tonight, or at least it seemed so. Tell that son of yours I'm proud of him – he's just like his dad." Stranahan grinned broadly; he was proud of his son, too, even more so when Sarah mentioned what a great team they made. With that she was off to find Cragen and get cleared to report to Mercy General, where she'd heard over the radio they'd taken John.

Cragen not only cleared Zelman to check on her partner, but he gave her a ride. They were both lost in their thoughts, both silently wondering how Munch was and if he was still being triaged in the Emergency Room or had been prepped and taken straight to surgery.

"John saved my life, Cap," she finally said, her hands trembling uncontrollably. "I was trying to give him first aid, had my piece holstered and suddenly had an al-Qaida gun to my head. John kicked me backward and shot the guy who was after the Prez, almost taking a second shot himself. I owe him my life," she said, almost disassociating from the intense stress. She felt surreal, like she was an observer, rather than a participant who was almost killed with her partner in the line of duty. "The FBI owes him a medal."

"He'll get it, too, and not posthumously. He's a fighter, Sarah… He'll make it, don't worry." They shared a look that meant neither of them believed the forced optimism.

"He saved my life, Cap. If we lose him, it's my fault," she said, her voice no louder than a whisper. She bowed her head and prayed to God he'd make it.

"Sarah… Sarah, it'll all be okay." He didn't know what to do to comfort her, except to hit the strobes and the siren to get her to the hospital, in case it was her last chance to see her partner.

Stabler and Tutuola were there, waiting for them. "What's the word on John?" Cragen asked, as Elliot stepped forward. Zelman tried to read his eyes, looking from Stabler to the others; their expressions said everything she needed to know.

"They're stabilizing him now, then he's going into surgery," Elliot explained.

"Yeah," Fin interjected, "seems someone had the presence of mind to apply a pressure dressing or he'd be in bigger trouble right now. He didn't go into shock until they hit the doors of the E.R., and they had a couple units of his blood type ready and waiting for him."

"I need to see him," Zelman insisted. "They have to understand – "

"We've tried," Elliot explained, "and they won't let _any_ of us near him right now." He couldn't fault her for wanting to be with her partner. He would have gone out of his mind if this had happened to Liv. "Sarah, I wish there was more we could do. We all do."

Hearing that, Sarah finally let out a long sigh. "Prognosis? _Any_ answers yet? Do they at least know if he'll make it?" She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice, but failed.

"Nothing more than we already know – a single shot to the shoulder and he's being worked on now," Elliot said. "Wish we could tell you more, Sarah. Sorry." She understood. Stabler softened toward her for a moment and wrapped his arms around her briefly. He noticed she had tears standing in her eyes, but considering what had happened he didn't fault her for it. She let her head rest against his chest for a moment, but then pulled back, trying to get her emotions in check.

"I heard more to the story," Cragen volunteered. "Heard that Stranahan took down one of the terrorists as you covered your partner. That right?"

"It is," Sarah admitted. "Saw a red laser line straight to my heart. Danny took the would-be shooter down, and that gave the medics the seconds they needed to get John into the EMS unit." She shrugged it off. "Munch kept me covered once, but Stranahan's another hero, everybody, because I thought at that second my life was _over_. I wondered if that was why I'd lived through the Towers – to make sure John lived through this." She was surprised she was breathing heavily, and felt as if she'd run a marathon. "Guess the adrenaline's starting to wear off…" She looked as weary as she felt.

Olivia came up behind her with a cold Sprite. "Here, honey… You need to sit down, catch your breath and drink some of this. It will help. It always helps me."

She led Sarah to a bench and watched as the detective leaned back, shaking. "Post-rush crash…sorry," she apologized. "Thanks for the soda – next one's on me." She started to reach for it with her left hand and realized her fingers wouldn't move properly. "What the – "

"Sarah, you're bleeding," Olivia said, tugging open the snaps on Zelman's windbreaker.

"Can't be…has to be John's blood, because I'm not feeling any pain." She tried to flex her wrist and couldn't. "Damn…that's odd…everything feels kind of numb."

"Seen that in Marines during boot camp," Elliot explained. "Adrenaline and endorphins make you high and numb, so you can get through whatever you have to. Watched a guy hike for two miles on a badly sprained ankle, because he was amped from action on the gunners' range."

Sarah quickly pulled off the windbreaker and saw her wrist was covered in blood, halfway up her arm. "Need to clean this up. Be right back," she said, getting up to find the nearest ladies' room.

"Go with her, Olivia!" Elliot called out as Zelman went briskly into the nearest lavatory. He was a few seconds too late, as she was already up and following Sarah. Stabler picked up the windbreaker and made a mental note to bag it as evidence later. "Cap, I think that was her blood – not John's."

Benson found Zelman with her head down, forehead resting on the small sink, water pouring over her arm. "Stings. I think it's a flesh wound," she said, holding on to the sink with her right hand, her knuckles white. "Might need a stitch or two."

"The water's not helping, it's bleeding worse, Sarah," Olivia insisted. "Let's get you looked at before you lose anymore blood." She grabbed a handful of paper towels and pressed them gently but firmly against Sarah's arm, noticing swelling and what looked to her like an entry point. "C'mon…it'll be awhile before they update us on John." She led her from the ladies' room, noticing how quiet and pale she'd become.

"I'm fine…probably winged by something in the firefight," she said, utterly wiped out. They made it to a nearby bench, and Sarah lay back. "If you could get me into the triage queue, I'd really appreciate it. I'm a little too dizzy to move at the moment." She closed her eyes and wished she'd had some of that Sprite after all.

Cragen had already taken care of it; a second-year resident came over and removed the bloodied paper towels and nodded. "Gunshot wound. Treatment room four," he ordered, as Cragen and Stabler helped Zelman to her feet and walked her over to a gurney.

"Thanks, guys," she said. "Didn't mean to cause a commotion. I only need a minute or two with my head down," she apologized. She saw the look of concern on Cragen's face. "Nothing to worry about, Cap…ask Fin, he knows how I get." She managed a wry smile. "Back soon."

"'Back soon?'" Fin said, "You _wish_. Wait till they hear about _this_ one, back at the house." She hadn't snapped back a remark and that worried him. "Damn, girl," he uttered as they wheeled her into the treatment room. "This night's gone to hell, that's for sure."

Chapter Thirty-Two: Aftermath 

"Two officers down now," Don said, "it's going to be a long night." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, taking out a twenty. "Benson, Stabler, want to go grab a round of coffee and whatever else you want? Fin's knee could use a rest, so maybe you could grab something for him as well. I'll take a large coffee – black, no sugar," he continued. "Someone needs to stay behind in case there's news."

"Some kind of cola works for me," Fin interjected. "Caffeine and sugar are what I need right now."

"Got it covered, Cap, put your money away," Elliot said. "You can grab the next round." He led Olivia toward the elevator, half-tugging at her because she wanted to stay with Cragen in case there were new developments. She was starting to feel protective of him; each time something bad happened he suffered along with his downed detectives, she knew. Elliot was taking her away, when she wanted to stay and comfort him somehow.

The elevator doors opened and they went inside, to go down and raid the cafeteria for caffeine and carbs. Once the elevator closed, Stabler let out a frustrated sigh. "I didn't see it, Liv… I was too busy thinking of her as FBI and it completely blindsided me."

"What's that, El?" Olivia asked. "You've been rougher on her than anyone else over coming in from another agency, and now you're having second-thoughts? That's not like you," she added, "to suddenly turn sympathetic." She tried to keep the venom out of her voice, but failed. She genuinely liked Zelman and it bothered her a lot that Elliot didn't, because there was no valid reason for his feelings. They simple were what they were, regardless of what anyone else said or did.

Elliot had been on Zelman's back since Cragen hired her; in small, annoying ways like how she filled out her D-D5s and other meaningless nit-picking. All the while, Sarah had taken his comments without complaint, without anger, working ever harder to try and fit in with him as she had with everyone else in the squad. Everyone else wondered when she'd finally grow tired of his crap and call him on it, but she let it roll off her back, knowing there was little else she could do. She knew it would take time and lots of it.

"Yes, Liv, I'm admitting I've been a total jerk," he said, "and you have every right to make me miserable about it. I deserve it," he added, his voice raised, ready for a brawl. "Say what you want to say," he snapped, "and don't hold back on my account, partner."

"I just don't get why, all of a sudden, you've realized how many hoops you've made her jump through – and that you feel guilty about it," she explained. "Everyone else is happy with her, but she can't do anything right as far as you're concerned. And now all that's changed?"

"Yeah," he said as they walked down the hall toward the cafeteria. "It changed when she did her best to help save John's life, and when she was ready to die for her partner." He stopped before they entered the cafeteria and leaned his head back against the wall. "She did for John what either of us would do for each other, Liv," he said. "and I didn't know she had it in her to go all the way."

"Well," Live said hotly, "now you know. If I were you, considering how you've treated her since she came on board – keeping in mind she was _invited_ – I'd tell her. Sooner, rather than later." She turned and walked into the cafeteria, as Elliot followed her silently.

"You're right," he admitted, pouring coffee into take-out cups. "I will. Cap was right and I second-guessed him in all the worst ways."

"You know something, El? I think this is one of the few times I've heard you admit that you were wrong."

"Probably so," he said, feeling ashamed. "And if I can help it, maybe it won't be the last."

Zelman closed her eyes and sank into the gurney, vowing to try and relax for ten or fifteen minutes as the doctor examined her wrist.

"I'd be tired too, with the amount of blood you must have leaked," he said, helping her get undressed and put on a gown, before he motioned to a nurse to start an I.V. "We need to get an x-ray," he explained, carefully moving his fingers near the entry point. She yelled an expletive as he pushed a bit too hard. "There's what I was afraid of," he said, "fractures from a bullet. I'd bet a ten-spot on it."

"No takers on _that_ bet," Sarah replied. "This mean surgery?"

"Very probable. Depends on how bad the fracture or fractures are."

"No way. No putting me under – not until I know about my partner," she asserted, staring to get up. The doctor gently pushed her back down with little resistance. "Okay. I get your point," she conceded. "But please, get me information about detective John Munch first, and then I promise to play nice with the other kids."

He allowed himself a tight smile. "While you're in x-ray, I'll make a call or two," he assured her. "That's the best I can do for now."

She looked down at her wrist, wondering when she'd be back at the shooting range. _Technically,_ she remembered, _no one but an FBI surgeon was to treat her, because of her security clearance and what she could conceivably say while going under._ But she was too tired to continue the VICAP mission from her stretcher and she was NYPD now. "Deal. Fix things. I won't resist." She closed her eyes again and made good on her promise.

"Which one of you is Don Cragen?" the nurse asked, a note in her hand.

"That's me," he said, standing. "Anything on John Munch? And what's the word on Sarah Zelman? It's taking a long time for a few stitches." He knew it would be more than that, but hoped he was wrong. Otherwise, she would be back with them by now.

"Good news on John Munch – he's out of surgery and in the recovery area, stable and expected to be 100 once he heals up and does some physical therapy. He'll be our guest for a few days," she added. "The surgeon will meet with you when he can – he has another operation to attend to before he comes down." She could hear the group's collective sigh of relief, as Fin gave Stabler a high-five.

"Thank God. That's the best news I've heard all week," Olivia said, deeply relieved.

"Told you he was too tough to die on us," Fin said, his mood lifted, "especially within a few years of retirement. Enough money could bring John back from the dead," he quipped.

"Zelman…let me check," she looked again to her notes. "Here…Zelman's gone to surgery. X-rays showed a bullet lodged in her arm, probably the same caliber that the surgeon took out of Munch's shoulder. Sarah said they'd been pinned down in a firefight," the nurse said. "One shot fractured both bones in her left arm, right above the wrist, and lodged in bone. She's shouldn't be in the O.R. long, but she won't be going home tonight, that's for certain."

"The surgeon," Cragen began, "saved the bullet from Munch for our ballistics people, didn't he?"

"He did," she confirmed. "He's going to do the same with Zelman. He knows that's your evidence. He'll bring everything with him when he meets with you."

"Were you able to get word to Zelman, about Munch?" Cragen asked. "She wanted to know about her partner."

"They gave her the good news as they took her into surgery. She was groggy, but she went under knowing he pulled through."

Don sighed, still concerned, but happier knowing Sarah found out the good news. "Thank you. You know how it shakes out with partners. They're pretty close – when he wakes up, let him know she'll be okay, please?"

"Sure will," she replied. "I'll keep you updated, too. Not to worry; she was stable going in, she's in good hands right now."

John Munch was aware of a rhythmic beeping and that there was something lightly covering his nose and mouth. Then, the roaring headache kicked in, with a wave of nausea that forced his eyes to squint tightly shut. He felt a sharp ache in his left shoulder and groaned. A nurse noticed a spike in his pulse rate, not realizing he vaguely remembered a red laser tagging Zelman's vest.

"John, relax… Everything's okay. You've just come out of surgery and you're going to be fine," the recovery room nurse said. He wanted desperately for her to lower her voice, because his headache amplified everything exponentially.

His throat was too sore and his mouth too dry for words, but he dimly wondered what had happened and he longed to ask. It started to come back slowly…as if in slow motion. Getting the hostages out, getting into the alley, taking a hit, a gun to Sarah's head, kicking her back and shooting someone, then…. _What happened to Sarah?_ He couldn't remember how it ended. He tried hard to recall the ending to what seemed like a movie gone wrong, but the rest was a blur, especially with his blinding headache.

The nurse heard the phone, had a short conversation and went back to John's side.

"John, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand." She took his hand and he gave it a weak squeeze. "Your partner, Sarah," she began, watching his pulse rate, "she's going to be fine. She's in surgery, but not for much longer and everything's going well." His pulse rate gradually dropped to normal. He squeezed her hand again, a little stronger this time.

She injected something into his I.V. and he drifted back into unconsciousness, but at least he was assured his partner was going to be all right.

After ninety minutes of surgery, Zelman was also in the recovery room.

She startled awake, grabbed her oxygen mask with her right hand and immediately tried to sit up. She struggled as a nurse pushed her back down, calling her name firmly. "Sarah, lie down," the nurse repeated. "You're okay…everything's okay. Leave the mask on, sweetheart. It's oxygen; you had some trouble breathing during surgery and we had to give you oxygen." Sarah settled back, her dark eyes large as she started to shake uncontrollably. "I need to get up," she decided, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Relax…_relax_. We're going to get you some blankets." The nurse motioned to an orderly to bring a couple of blankets, warmed in the dryer. They tucked her in and slowly her shaking began to subside. "You don't need to go anywhere. Everything's okay."

"John," she whispered, "my partner – how is he?"

"He's fine, Sarah," the nurse assured her. "The surgery was successful, he came through like a trouper and he's about to go to a room on the medical/surgical floor. You're both safe now; you can go to sleep, it's all right." Sarah let out a long breath and allowed herself to sleep; the warmth had finally stopped her shaking. The nurse checked her I.V., made sure she was out of pain and went back to John, who was sound asleep and stable.

She smiled as another orderly looked from one to the other. "Cops?" he asked.

"Gee, can you tell?" she quipped, giving him a look. She made a quick call and spoke with Cragen directly this time, before releasing Munch to the med/surg nurses who'd come to take charge of him.

The orthopedic surgeon had changed from bloody scrubs into a clean set, figuring the NYPD had seen enough blood spilled while they worked that night. He came down the hall, tired but happy he was about to deliver good news. At least 'good' from his perspective, knowing both detectives would eventually make a complete recovery.

"I believe these belong to you," he said, holding out two vials of bullet fragments, each marked with the appropriate detective's name. He'd seen Cragen's badge was different from his counterparts, and the older man was also pacing. "You can all relax now," he began. "Both Munch and Zelman are going to be fine. They're both stable and Munch was being transferred to a room already, as I left Zelman in the recovery area."

"How bad, each of them?" Cragen asked, wondering how long he'd be without his detectives.

"Munch had a pretty nasty shoulder wound, but the bullet didn't damage bone. It was actually resting against his shoulder joint, but didn't go any farther. I repaired muscle and he's got a drain in his shoulder for a few hours, then I'll take him back in later tonight and close it. We can use a deep local for that." He remembered something else. "He'll need physical therapy, but should be back to normal soon enough."

"At least what passes for 'normal' for that cat," Fin interjected, relieved. The doctor smiled.

"Zelman, now that's where the hardware came into play," he said. "Her bones were badly broken right above her wrist, so I used some glue, surgical netting, four small titanium plates and eight little screws. We were able to put everything back together, pretty much, but she'll need a cast while the bone fragments knit and heal."

"Will she be able to use her gun again?" Cragen asked. "She shoots left and right, or so I'm told."

"She will, but only after eight weeks in a cast. I'll redo the x-rays after six weeks to see how things are going, but the titanium may be with her permanently."

"Oh, she'll love that," Olivia said. "She'll set off metal detectors."

"She'll be carrying a note from me; that should clear her through any situation with metal detectors. In the meantime, she and Munch are on I.V. antibiotics, to prevent any problems or infection. The important thing is, they're good… You can all relax now. They'll make it."

Don thanked the doctor and explained they'd need their clothing in addition to the vials of fragments. The doctor agreed to have a nurse coordinate with Stabler to bag their things as evidence, along with the windbreaker Sarah had 'borrowed.'

"Okay, folks," Cragen said, "you heard what the surgeon said. Now we know they'll be all right. Time to go home and get some sleep. Come in late," he ordered. "No rips for tardiness, not after tonight." He pocketed the two vials of ordnance fragments and would put them in evidence bags when he was back at the sixteenth.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Officers Down 

"Hey, John," Fin said, relieved to see Munch upright and awake, although still in his hospital bed. "You scared the shit out of us all, man. You have to quit doing that, or somebody's gonna have a heart attack."

"You? Or Cragen?" he quipped. "Maybe we should start an office pool on which of you is first," he added wryly. His left arm was in a sling, his shoulder wound covered in a heavy bandage. "Seen my partner?" he asked, lowering his voice as Fin sat down by the bed.

"She was a naughty monkey and now she's in lockdown," he replied, a big grin on his face. "Decided she was going to get out of bed without permission, took off her sling and got dressed in some scrubs she hoisted," he explained. "She was going to sign out A.M.A., see you, then go home. As if they weren't going to notice her!" Fin saw John's expression and added, "You can close your mouth anytime you want. Man, you're giving me that 'guppy' look."

"She was going to leave against medical advice? With our insurance plan, that's tantamount to treason." He shook his head. "What did they do, put her in restraints?"

"Nah, nothin' like that," Fin said. "They let her keep the scrub pants, but made her surrender the top for a gown, get back into bed and then they gave her a little something to slow her down," he said with a chuckle. "She's getting iced down now with some cryo-pack thing, so they can put her arm in a cast. They also boosted her pain meds to make her a little more compliant."

Munch smiled at the thought of them having to drug her like a caged animal, a tigress. "I heard about the titanium hardware. She'll set off every metal detector in every Federal building between here and Queens," John groused, knowing Sarah's opinion of guards, machines and long lines to get into courthouses. "She looked okay to you? I could call her… That might help."

"She's good, but lonely. She blames herself that you're here, just so you know," he mentioned. "You should call her, but don't let on that I ratted her out, or she'll hand me my backside. She's not exactly in what I'd call a happy frame of mind. The surgeon put her on IV antibiotics, like you're on, and she's in for at least two or three more days."

"Three days? She'll sneak out before then, unless I talk some sense into her," he said. "She'll work her magic on the doctor and he'll let her out before she's ready. Or at least

that's what _she_ thinks." He made a mental note to warn the medical staff not to fall for her logic.

They regarded each other for a long moment. "Seriously, John, we're all glad you're going to be okay. Man, you really did almost buy it, you know? So did she, but you were pretty damned fast on the draw-down."

"It was close, but my partner had me covered," he said simply. "We had each other's backs. None of this was her fault. Where does she get off even _thinking_ such a thing?" He was irritated that she considered herself a liability if only for a moment. "I hadn't seen her in the thick of it all before then, but she didn't disappoint anyone. She stood there ready to take a bullet for me. Maybe even buy it. Just like you would have done."

"In a gnat's heartbeat," Fin agreed. "She was so cool under pressure and all. Y'know, if you decide you'd rather keep her as a partner – "

"Not so fast, Fin! Are you looking for an excuse to dump me?" Munch was genuinely hurt at the thought. "Maybe I won't be as fast on the trigger after this? Or maybe _you'd_ rather have Sarah, and – "

"Of course not, but – "

"I consider her my _temporary_ partner and as soon as you're through rehab, it's back to your bad driving and onion burgers again." John looked thoughtful for a moment. "I have no idea what Cragen's going to do with her, but she'll be fine with whomever he pairs her with. They'll be lucky to have her."

"I'm down with that," he agreed. "Call her, John. She's trying to hide it, but she misses you. She's worried. Who wouldn't be, after what happened?"

"She could probably use some time with Huang, too." The doctor had been in to see Munch as soon as he could have visitors, as part of the VICAP debriefing process. John knew Zelman would have her session as well, probably one of several.

"You need anything?" Fin asked. "Besides some real food and a _Times_?"

"You know me well, bro," he admitted. "Add _Time_ and _Newsweek_ to the list, as well as anything that's in the top ten on the non-fiction bestseller list. All I have here is a collection of music channels that _don't_ include smooth jazz. Those banal talk shows raise my blood pressure so much they threatened to take away my remote."

"Okay… I'll be back around six with some orange chicken and more reading material," Fin assured him.

"I couldn't ask for a better friend, Fin," he replied. "Thanks."

"Return the favor, bro… Make the call. Before she violates her parole." He laughed again and shook his head.

"If you'd get your ass moving, I could," he quipped. "I'm not trading sweet nothings with her while you're still here. After all, you may get jealous," he joked.

"And to think I was glad someone saved your boney white ass," he said, laughing. "See you later."

As soon as Fin left, he picked up the phone from his nightstand and put it on his lap. He had asked for Sarah's room number earlier in the day, and now called it, hoping she wasn't asleep.

"Zelman," she answered, a little groggy from the pain meds and tranquilizers she'd been given earlier.

"Hi, it's me." He heard her voice and immediately ached for her. He would have given his badge and gun just to see her at that point.

"John? Is that really you? How are you?"

"It's me, sweetie," he said, his mood lifting at the sound of her voice. "I'm a lot better than when you saw me last, but I'll be in here awhile."

"I tried to visit, but they caught me," she said morosely. "Back in bed with a cryo-pack on my arm, so I can get a cast and go home. Now I hear it'll be two or three more days, which sucks."

"Are they keeping you out of pain?" he asked, hopeful.

"Yeah…no problems there," she admitted. "And tranquillized, I firmly suspect. How about you?"

"They're taking good care of me, Sarah, don't worry."

"I _do_ worry," she said softly. "It's…my fault it all came down like it did."

"I don't get how you figure that, when I was the senior detective and I made the decisions," he reminded her.

"I won't second-guess those decisions, either," she said, "because I agreed with all of them. But there was probably more I could have done."

"Cragen said you finished our task without me, when I was with EMS," he said. "And that was after standing there with a laser tagging your vest." He knew only Huang could reason with her self-esteem, but he was determined to try. "You did exceptional work under incredible circumstances, and there was nothing better or different you could have done. Got that? You had a gun against your head and you kept your cool. If you hadn't, we would have been hostages."

"Yes, I know," she replied softly. "I would have gladly taken the shot, if it meant you didn't have to."

"I know that," he reminded her. "The entire squad knows that. And you _did_ take a shot. If I'd taken a second one, we might not be having this conversation."

_I'll ignore that reference to death_, she thought bitterly. "Everyone knows that except Elliot…he'll have his say about how I handled it. I'll probably catch crap about not being able to draw down on anyone, which makes me worthless as a partner at the moment. I'm looking at eight weeks of desk duty right now, and it's frustrating."

"If he has any questions, refer him to your partner, who also won't be on the firing line for awhile," John said ruefully. He'd seen how she had been tolerating Stabler's treatment of her, and he wasn't too pleased. She needed to think of it less like a hazing and put a stop to it pronto, but she didn't want to make it an issue that could cause anyone to choose sides. "If he has problems with you after last night, I want to speak with him."

"I can handle it, John. Don't let it worry you."

_If you only knew,_ he thought, deciding it best to change the subject. "Tell you what," he offered. "I'll talk to the nurses and see if they'll let us have dinner together tonight. Fin's bringing orange chicken."

"That would be good. Maybe they'll listen to you. They just roll their eyes when I want to get up."

_If you'd behaved initially and hadn't tried to take a walk with your hardware, it wouldn't be that way,_ he thought, but decided she'd been punished enough. "I'll tell them our I.V. poles are lonely for each other, and if they don't let them spend time together, everything will stop working," he joked. "But you have to rest until they let you out. Agreed?"

"Anything, as long as they'll let me see you," she admitted. She blinked as Elliot knocked on her door. "I have a visitor… See you later, hopefully," she said, lowering her voice.

"Is it El?" he asked.

"Yep. Bye." He said a hasty goodbye and hung up, wishing he could hear their conversation. _If Stabler gives her any grief…_ He pushed the thought from his mind. There was a time when she had to stand up to him on her terms, and this time he couldn't even watch what was about to take place. The curiosity was almost more than he could bear.

"Come in," she said. He walked in, coffee in hand. "Come to tell me how much I screwed up last night, Elliot?" she asked. "Or are my D-D5's wrong again?" The drugs flowing through her system to made her too tired to put up with him or his nit-picking. The news she'd be in longer than she liked was also affecting her mood and she didn't care whom she took it out upon. Elliot was a fine target for the moment. "Which is it, Stabler?"

"I came to see you, Sarah, because I'd like to apologize," he said evenly, putting down the coffee. "I brought you a mocha latte and I brought along a large order of crow for myself."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Empty Desks 

"Penny for your thoughts, Cap," Olivia ventured, watching as Cragen stood in the bullpen, perfectly still, staring for more than a long moment at the empty desks of Munch and Zelman.

Her words broke his reverie, but he hadn't heard what she'd said. "Did you say something, Olivia? I'm sorry… I was a little other-directed at the moment." He felt like making a stop at Mercy Hospital while they worked their current case, but knew he'd hovered enough with frequent visits and calls.

"I was just saying, I'd give a penny for your thoughts, that's all," she reiterated. "You okay?" she added softly.

"I never thought I'd hear myself saying this," he began, "but I actually miss John's smart-ass remarks and his conspiracy theory rants. It's too damned quiet in here without him." He gestured toward Zelman's desk. "And I find myself looking out here for Sarah, who keeps her head down and works like she's got something to prove… I miss her sarcasm almost as much as John's."

"We both know she doesn't have anything to prove to anyone."

"Elliot's been on her back, but even he's been quiet since she's been out of action," he acknowledged. "I miss them, Liv. I want my squad back – all of them, intact."

"Sarah's going to be back in a few days, isn't she?"

"Yes, but she put in for some extra time off, or at least some flex-time, so she could take care of John. She's going to check in on him throughout the day, get him to P.T., doctor's appointments and all that," he explained. "She'll be working, but taking care of him at the same time. She's also volunteered to push paper for you, Elliot and Fin, since she's unable to shoot right now with her busted wing."

"She mentioned that, and we could certainly use the help. She types faster than Elliot, even with her broken arm in a sling." The current molestation and subsequent rape case they were working required so much street time, keeping on top of paperwork was almost an impossible task.

"Well, I want her back, but not before she's ready. If she takes off that sling, or if I see her arm out of it, her _ass_ will be in a sling before she knows it," he asserted. "It's against my better judgment to let her come back so soon, but we need her, even though it'll be some time before that cast comes off."

"John needs her too, though, so you're right to give her a company car and flex-time."

"He gets out of the hospital in a few days. That should make things easier for her, at least I hope so."

"Cap, if you worry things are too quiet, El and I can always have a good ol' fashioned brawl. That's cheap therapy for us and it's usually loud enough to be heard in your office, with the door closed." She grinned, trying to joke him into a better frame of mind.

"Thanks, but no thanks," he shot back, a wide smile on his face. "Every time you two go at it, I get complaints from upstairs and downstairs, wondering what in the hell is going on. And the hit I take on first-aid supplies seriously depletes the department budget."

"By the way, where is Elliot?" Cragen asked. "I thought he was bringing back lunch for you both."

"He's at Mercy Hospital – to see John and Sarah. He said something about 'mending fences,' but I have no idea what he intended. When he gets back, maybe you can call him in and talk with him. He's been even moodier than usual since the VICAP mission… I could use some help in getting him into a debriefing with Dr. Huang."

"I can easily make that happen," Don assured her. "Even if he blows up about it at first. Hell, at least it'll liven this place up again. All this quiet is more than I can take."

"Makes two of us," Olivia agreed. "John will be back soon enough, with Sarah's help. Who knows? He may have a whole new set of conspiracy theories by then… Guess we better be careful what we wish for, right?"

"At this point, I just want him back. Sarah, too," he added. "Feels like we're missing part of our family and it's not a feeling I want to live with for very long."

"Amen to that," Liv said softly. "I miss them, too. In the meantime, if there's anything I can do, please let me know?"

"I will…" Cragen placed his hand on Liv's shoulder. "Thanks, Olivia. Keep hammering away at this case and I'll get Zelman in here to help as soon as she's able."

"Looking forward to it, Cap."

"Me, too, Liv," he said simply. "It can't happen too soon for me. I hate empty desks, especially when it means I have officers down." He went back into his office and closed the door.

Olivia Benson ached for him and what he was going through.

Chapter Thirty-Five: An Apology 

"You're apologizing?" she asked, incredulous. "The Elliot Stabler I know doesn't do things like that. He's too busy making generalizations and jumping to the wrong conclusions," she added, wishing she could fold her arms over her chest. "Feeling guilty? Or turning human?"

He sat down, tentatively. "Both. I've come to set things right between us," he offered, "if you're open to that." He knew this wasn't going to be easy. But had too much damage already been done?

"I am," Sarah admitted, "so let's clear the air now, why don't we?

"There's not much to say, unless you've been keeping a list," he said carefully, wondering if she had been keeping a mental tally of all the times he'd jumped her case about meaningless issues. "I realized after last night that you're just as tough as the rest of us, that your surviving the Towers wasn't a fluke – it was your determination. I've misjudged you and I'm very, very sorry, Sarah."

His expression was so heartfelt she softened her tone with him. "Yes, you've been a real shit, Stabler, but you've always had something against me because I used to be FBI," she explained. "What's the deal? Are you government-phobic or something? Or does this have to do with the secrets I was forced to keep for VICAP?" She genuinely wanted to understand why he reacted so heatedly to anything having to do with the Bureau.

"I meant what I said, when I forgave you for keeping a lid on the VICAP info." His eyes held her gaze, with forgiveness and sincerity. "Your back was against the wall on that one. But I've seen so much grandstanding over Bureau collars throughout my time, I expected you to breeze in and start taking credit for busts," he admitted. "I've seen others do so, and thought you'd be exactly like them."

"You saw Munch and me collar a couple perps my first week at the sixteenth, and did I grandstand?"

"Not at all," Elliot admitted. "You gave Munch all the credit and he actually had to tell Cragen how much you'd assisted. You've never stepped in where you weren't invited, and you've kept a very low profile. Except at the VICAP meeting," he said. "But Cragen wanted to show you off there, which is understandable. He did a lot to get you, for all the right reasons."

"You also didn't think I had the guts for SVU, or the compassion," she said evenly. "Did you?"

"Okay," he conceded, "I admit that I wondered about that – a lot. I also didn't know if you could draw your weapon when you had to."

"Let me ask you a question, Elliot. Where do you think the perps end up when SVU doesn't collar them?"

"I try not to think about it, but that's a good question," he replied softly.

"They end up on an FBI list, or the U.S. Marshals' Service list," she answered. "Most didn't make the Ten Most Wanted, but that never changed the scope of Bureau work. When I was FBI, anyone SVU didn't collar usually came to my department. I've been working sex crimes a long time, but you didn't know – because you didn't need to know. You didn't check my jacket, did you?" _But I bet you'd wanted to,_ she thought. "Cragen could have told you. He probably would have, if you'd pressed him."

"I screwed up," he admitted. "Didn't do my homework, obviously. Now I know you have no hesitation with your weapon, either."

"You simply thought he brought me in because of John, didn't you? That all I did was push paper for the Feds?" Sarah watched his blue eyes open a bit wider as he carefully controlled his blink rate. "Busted. Admit it," she dared him.

"But I was all wrong," he said simply. "I'm sorry. Will you forgive me? Do you think we could be friends after all?"

She smiled, genuinely glad they had a chance to put their cards on the table. "You're forgiven. And any friend of John's is someone I'd want to have as a friend, too." She offered her hand, surprised that after they shook hands, he held hers for a moment. "Besides, who wouldn't fall for a bribe like that mocha latte." She was pleased to see he was also smiling. He took off the lid and she thanked him. Before taking a sip, she lifted it and said, "Here's to friendship and to always being straight with each other."

"To friendship," he agreed. "Now maybe Liv will stop gritting her teeth when she talks to me." He shot a glance over his shoulder. "She put me straight and I'm glad. You're a good cop and I'm sorry I didn't say that sooner." He shrugged. "I had no idea you'd worked sex crimes before. Now I know."

"Maybe if I hang with sex crimes through SVU long enough, I'll go from a good cop to a great one," Sarah quipped. She looked up as an orderly brought in a wheelchair. "No way," she groaned. "Wherever we're going, I'm walking."

"Time for your cast," he explained. "And John Munch said if you don't play things our way, we're to call him."

Stabler roared with laughter. "Your partner's got your back, whether you want him to or not. Looks like _you're_ busted, this time." He helped her to her feet and made sure she was settled. "I gotta go see John… See you later, Sarah."

"So long, El…thanks for the latte. Tell John I'm behaving," she said, defeated for the moment. "Okay, let's go get my cast – it means I'm that much closer to heading back to work."

Fin came in, laden with a large brown bag that held orange chicken, rice, fortune cookies and green tea. "Dinner's here," he called, "along with enough reading material to open your own newsstand." He found places to put everything, then sat down heavily. "Need anything else, John?"

"Actually, I do," he admitted. "Would you go down to Sarah's room and walk her down here? I promised her dinner and she's been remarkably tractable ever since."

"You trust me with your girlfriend?" Fin teased. "She's looking pretty hot in that hospital gown and scrub pants."

He grinned. "You're allowed to touch only so long as it facilitates bringing her to me," he quipped. "Otherwise, I'll have to kick your ass once rehab's over."

"Well, since you put it that way… Yeah, let me go get her. She expecting me?"

"Not entirely, I wanted it to be a bit of a surprise. She's behaved well – time for her to have a decent dinner, instead of being sentenced to more hospital food." He started rummaging through the shopping bag with his right hand, wishing he could use his left, too.

"I'll be right back…with Sarah." Fin grinned. "You two really think you can keep secrets in here?"

"No, but neither do we care," John retorted. "After all, I'm allowed to have dinner with my partner. Nothing's wrong with that." He practiced his most innocent look.

"You are some piece of work, John Munch," Fin said, leaving for Sarah's room.

Fin knocked on the door and walked into Zelman's room. "Hey, girl, how you doing?"

"Good… See the bright blue fashion accessory they've given me?" She had a sleek new fiberglass cast, wrapped in bright blue tape, peeking out from her navy blue and white sling. "This was better than Kelly green or hot pink."

"Time for you to show it off, then," he said. "I'm your escort to John's room."

"For real?"

"Yeah…he bribed the nurses to give you both some together time," Fin explained. He held out his hand and helped Sarah to her feet. "I've got your I.V., you set the pace. He's only five rooms away, so it's not a long walk." She kept close to Fin, feeling a little surreal being out of bed and on her own two feet at last. "You okay?" he asked.

"Fine…just a little shaky. It'll pass." He had one hand on her I.V. pole and protectively wrapped his other arm around her waist. They slowly walked together to John's room and she hesitated at the door. She took a deep breath, wondering what she'd see.

"We're here," Tutuola said. "He's a wreck…don't be shocked or anything. He's better than he looks."

"I'll take your word for it," she said, pushing open the door. When she saw him, her heart almost broke. He looked pathetic without his glasses, confined to a bed with his shoulder a mess and his arm in a sling. She blinked back tears, determined not to cry in front of Fin. Tears could come later, in the privacy of her own room. "John – oh, my God…" her mouth went dry and she couldn't speak.

Fin settled her into a chair and made a hasty excuse for his exit, leaving the two of them alone.

He saw her cast and tried for levity. "Blue's really your color."

She felt hot tears track down her cheeks, despite her vow not to cry; he was trying to be glib, and she had come so close to losing him. "I'm so sorry… I wish I could have spared you all the pain you must be in…" She leaned over and they kissed, not caring if even Cragen walked in at that moment. "I was so afraid you wouldn't make it… Oh, John…I wish to God this had never happened." They kissed again, making up for time lost in their separate misery.

"You had my back, like I told Fin and Cragen," he reminded her. "Now let's put the whys and wherefores behind us. We did the best we could – it was good, solid police work and we'll both make a full recovery." He reached into the bag and started pulling out containers; orange chicken, brown rice, cashew chicken, green tea, Mandarin oranges and fortune cookies. "Fin stopped by my favorite Chinese restaurant. He also brought you something special."

"What's that?"

John grinned wickedly. "Latest issue of 'Guns & Ammo' magazine, along with a couple newspapers."

"God bless the man!" Zelman asserted. "You should have seen the pabulum the nurses were plying me with – 'Good Housekeeping,' 'Style' and so many fashion faux pas it was starting to make me nauseated." She helped him pop the lid off the orange chicken. "I think they were all waiting for me to ask for a manicure or a makeover. Speaking of which, I have no idea how Olivia keeps her nails as nice as they are."

"Her secret vice," John explained. "She does the whole makeup and tight slacks thing for Elliot."

"I figured as much," Sarah admitted, forking a piece of chicken into John's mouth. "I'm allergic to makeup and the smell of nail polish triggers an asthma attack. Guess I flunked out of 'Girlie School.'" She laughed wryly, taking a bite of chicken. "Earrings are my secret vice," she confided. "And a nice looking piece."

"Of ass?" John asked, "You definitely have that."

"Gee, thanks… I meant my Glock, you nut," she retorted. "Speaking of which, where's our ordnance?" Just because she couldn't use her gun didn't mean she felt less naked without it at her side. "The snakes took our guns, didn't they?" She knew all about IAB from Cragen, and she'd experienced her own version of them in the FBI each time she discharged her weapon at a crime scene. She hated anyone and everyone who worked for Internal Affairs, because they all tried to trip up good cops and make them fall hard, sacrificing their credibility and career in the slaughter.

"They did," he admitted. "Cragen surrendered our guns to IAB, since we fired them during the VICAP mission. He said they're already back and in his safe. We were cleared by IAB in record time." He took the fork from her and mixed rice into some cashew chicken, then gave her a bite. "This is from the place I was telling you about. Good, isn't it?"

"The best. Especially when hospital food has been so dismal."

"You okay?" he asked, wondering what was on her mind. She didn't seem distant like he'd experienced with her at times, but she wasn't completely with him yet. He chalked it up to the aftermath of the VICAP recon, and knew eventually she'd put it behind her. But right then, it was still too soon for her to file it away mentally and emotionally. "Thinking about the VICAP mission?" It was, as was his custom, merely a rhetorical question.

"Yeah," she admitted softly, "I am. You remember the gal I put down the fire escape first? After the translator went down?"

"Vaguely, yes. She looked scared out of her mind, and she had an older daughter?"

"The daughter wasn't hers. The woman was a deep-cover operative, named Zaquia Zarquai and she infiltrated the cell while they were still overseas. Somehow, she made herself indispensable to them and they brought her over with them. That's why I was being more careful with her, than the others – without giving anyone time to notice."

"I saw her glance at you for more than a moment, but figured it was out of fear," he said.

"We had to cover instant recognition. I was so scared for her, but I knew there was nothing I could do except maintain her façade." She didn't want to say too much more, because ears were everywhere in a public setting. "She was pulled back in, when everyone went to the 16th for booking. She's in protective custody with the Bureau, while they do a thorough debriefing."

"She's one hell of an actress," Munch said. "Being under that long, won't she also need some time with Dr. Huang? I could imagine it would be like being a released hostage."

"She'll do plenty of 'couch time' and he'll keep the Bureau posted on her progress. I will say one thing about them, they're good with people who come in from the cold." She looked down and toyed with the hem of her gown for a moment. "Hey, John?"

"Yes?" He was glad she'd explained so much and that her acquaintance would be all right, with time.

"Speaking of the Bureau, you know you're getting a special commendation medal, right?"

"No, I didn't," he said, with a surprised huff. "Didn't do anything anyone else would have, so why me?"

"Cragen put us all in for commendations, but you'll have an extra one."

"Why me?" He was genuinely curious, since he didn't feel he deserved to be singled out.

"You got the guy who wanted to kill the President," she reminded him. "And, technically, in some ways, I'm still a Federal Agent. You saved my life, and I didn't want that to go unrecognized. You'll be sporting a special star on your uniform, next time you're in dress blues."

He shrugged. "Thanks, but you didn't have to do that, you know. We were just doing our jobs. Hope you won't hold it against me that I saved the Prez," he joked in his usual acerbic style.

"I'll let that slide," she joked back, remembering that Fin was Republican and the two of them…weren't. "I know you didn't intend to get singled out, but it's important to me they recognized what you did," she said simply. "Most of all,_ you're_ important to me."

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments. He caught her simply looking at him, watching him. "What's on your mind?"

"You," she said simply. "How handsome you look without glasses. Do you need them right at the moment?"

"Only if you're too tired to read to me," he admitted. "Then I do." He passed her the issue of 'Newsweek,' and she began to leaf through it. She wondered how it would feel to read the articles on the September 11th attacks, but decided he'd want to hear what the editors and staff would have to say. She read a couple of articles to him, between bites of dinner.

They were back in their comfort zone, as they'd been when she was recuperating from the Towers; feeding each other and reading to each other. The unanswered questions hung heavily in the air above them: How would they be able to preserve their personal relationship while they were paired at work? And John wanted desperately to know exactly what Stabler had said to her earlier in the day.

As she finished the second article, he couldn't stand it anymore. "What did El have to say?" he asked, trying to be nonchalant. "I saw he brought you some coffee… Was it a peace offering?"

She took a sip of tea and asked, "Didn't he tell you? He was heading off to see you when I left to get my cast. I thought he told you everything."

"Told me what?" John was on the verge of being exasperated. "He was pretty tight-lipped when he came in – stopped by to wish me well and see if I needed anything."

"Ohhhhhh… He actually came to see me to _apologize_." She watched his face go slack. "Honest to God, he wanted to patch things up and we're friends now. I called him on all his crap and he took it like a man, and then we shook hands. He even bribed me with a mocha."

"Unbelievable," Munch said, incredulous. "Was he serious?"

"He was," she assured him. "Time will tell, but I think the VICAP mission finally made a dent. Plus, Olivia was giving him hell like you wouldn't believe. He admitted that, too."

"An actual Stabler apology. God, I wish we had that on videotape!"

"You and me both," she said. "Too bad I wasn't wearing a wire, so you could have heard it. We'll see how things go, but I think he meant what he said. I'm willing to give him a chance to make things right, even though he's made life pretty rough – especially over the last couple of weeks."

"Break open your fortune cookie and see what it says," he urged. "There may be some mysterious insight," he joked.

She broke it in half and pulled out the small strip of paper. "'The most dangerous path is often the most successful.'" She shrugged. "Could be true. Now yours."

He opened his a bit at a time, then extracted the fortune, "'You are lucky in love and in life.'"

"Appropriate, both of them," Sarah said. "I see a signal outside the door… The nurse is pointing to her watch." She helped him clean up the remains of their dinner, then giggled as he pulled her into a kiss. "Sleep well, sweetie. I have to get back to my cell, while the wardens are still in a good mood." She smiled slyly. "When does your physical therapy start?"

"Tomorrow," he replied. "If I'm healed up enough to begin."

"Maybe I can see you afterward…"

"Hope so," he said. "I miss you."

She stood, rummaged in the nightstand and gave him his glasses. "Figured you'd want to read for awhile." She stole a glance out of the window in the door. " I miss you, too. You have no idea." Sarah traced her finger down his jaw-line and tipped his head up slightly.

"Bet I do." He grinned and took the opportunity to kiss her one last time. "Love you."

"Love you, too… Thanks for dinner."

"You're welcome. Don't be a stranger." He smiled and she returned it. As she left, he was putting on his glasses and getting settled in for a couple hours' reading, with one of several newspapers spread across his lap.

It wasn't exactly Le Bistro, but at least they had some time together. The healing from the VICAP mission had begun, and not simply in the physical sense.

Chapter Thirty-Six: Physical Therapy 

Zelman was out of the hospital and back at her place when she made a decision: She would take care of John, as he had taken care of her, after she'd been rescued from the World Trade Center.

She'd already prepared Cragen for it, speaking with him about a few extra days off and some flex-time, to which he'd readily agreed. He knew John lived alone, and recuperating without someone to literally lend a hand would be a daunting challenge. It could also slow his recovery, and no one wanted that to eventuate.

She delved into her closet and found a sport bag, then packed it with three or four days' worth of casual clothes. She packed a fold-over bag with work clothes, so she could go in and assist with paperwork or anything else she could manage with one free hand. She wanted so badly to take off her sling, but had promised John she'd behave and do what the orthopedic surgeon had told her.

That didn't mean she couldn't get on the Internet and arrange for groceries, which she'd done as soon as she'd walked the two blocks to his place and settled inside. They'd each made the other a duplicate set of apartment keys, not only for safety's sake as partners, but also because they'd reached the point in their relationship where swapping keys was comfortable. She'd set up her personal laptop and was glad he had DSL service.

Next, she unpacked and hung her clothes in the guest bedroom, which was more his storage room for the overflow of books and music CDs he enjoyed. His guest room closet was an epiphany for her; she discovered suits in several different colors, all of them tasteful and queued to his lustrous salt and pepper hair. But these days, working SVU, he wore black almost always. It made her wonder what had changed in him since his homicide days in Baltimore. She was afraid she already knew, but pushed the thoughts from her mind.

She found a place for her toiletries on the small nightstand. She was careful not to disturb anything, but she needed a place to fold out the roll-away bed, so some stacks had to be carefully relocated.

Soon, she not only had her wardrobe in order, but had a place to sleep as well. She wouldn't be sleeping with John right away, because of his shoulder injury. Sarah didn't want to take the chance she'd accidentally touch him wrong as they slept, causing him more pain.

She made a mental note to bring over extra pillows, her bolster and her body pillow. Those would give her the means to make him more comfortable as he sat and read, and also as he slept. She'd need to stop by the pharmacy; there would be prescriptions when he checked out of Mercy, as she'd had filled for herself when she'd been released.

So much to do, but it would be well worth it to have him home and be able to ensure he was well-cared for while he went through P.T. She'd help him through that as well, as he had done for her. She wasn't immediately sure how she'd accomplish everything and still do what she could for Cragen and the 16th, but there would be a way to work it all out. It was merely a question of time management and semantics.

However much she was torn between work and personal life, she knew in her heart her first responsibility was to John Munch. And she would honor that responsibility first and foremost.

She was ready for him the day he was discharged from Mercy General. She'd called Fin and he took a company car to pick him up and bring him home. For her, she was relieved so many things were within walking distance, because driving with one hand in Manhattan wasn't exactly an option. Although she saw people driving like that every day, putting on makeup, reading, talking on their cell phones. It wasn't her way.

She'd stocked the fridge, had his bed ready, had filled his prescriptions, and enlisted Fin's help in bringing her weights and exercise equipment to his place for the duration. She knew Tutuola would also keep the secret she had temporarily moved in with John.

Her cell phone rang and she flipped it open. "Zelman. May I help you?"

"You sure can," Fin said brightly, "by taking this whining, complaining John Munch off my hands, before I choke him into silence. Man, what a baby I'm bringing you, girlfriend!"

She laughed, hearing John bitch about Fin's driving as he talked on the phone. _Would you just hang up that damned thing and concentrate?_ She giggled as John ranted in the background, more than ready to be in the comfort of his own space.

"I'm ready for him…bring it on," she told Fin, who'd just pulled up in front of Munch's building. "I'll have the door unlocked, if you can get him up here."

"I could get him up there if I had to carry his boney ass," Fin shot back. "It would be worth it to my nerves – he's worked my last good one to the bitter end." He flipped his phone closed and glared at John. "You want anything from me in the future, then quit bitching about my drivin'." He hit the lights to strobe and came around to make sure Munch was able to unlatch his seatbelt and get out. "Don't give Sarah any shit, John, or she's to call me. You understand?"

"Whatever you say," he retorted. "I'm ready to kiss the concrete to celebrate making it home in one piece." He closed the door and looked at Tutuola. "Thanks for the ride home, Fin. I know my way up. I can make it without help."

"You sure?" he asked, genuinely concerned. "I am needed back at the house, if you're okay."

"I'm good," he assured his friend. "I just want to see Sarah, grab a pain pill and crash for the afternoon."

"Sounds like a plan, man." He looked at Munch over the top of the car, from the driver's side. "Take it easy, John. You or Sarah need anything, call me on my cell. Okay?"

"Got it. Thanks again." He thanked the doorman, made a little small talk and then took the elevator to the third floor. His face lit up as he saw her. "Hi, honey… I'm home."

She genuinely laughed for the first time in ages. "I'm glad you're home. I've missed you so much. Being in your place alone is like some sort of hell," she said.

"I thought you loved my place," he said, perplexed.

"I do…when you're in it." She felt his arm wrap around her and she allowed him to carefully pull her as close as he wanted. He drew her into a long, sensuous kiss. "I missed that, too, most of all."

"Me, too…" She kissed him again and then they locked the door. "John? Promise me something?"

"Sure, babe," he replied, "whatever you want." He smelled fresh flowers. She'd bought him daisies and he was secretly delighted.

"Let me take care of _you_, the way you took care of me," she said simply.

"Do I get to be as difficult as you were?" he said with a laugh. "Do I get to complain that I have to be tough because I'm a cop? I can be the world's biggest baby, when I get the chance and here you are giving me Carte Blanche." His expression dared her to deny him.

"Do your worst, John Munch," she dared him right back. "I can handle the likes of your kind." _Like when Stranahan's back went out, but some things he doesn't need to know,_ she thought ruefully. "I think you should go into the bedroom. I'll help you get changed and get comfy, then it's pain pill and antibiotic time."

"Ah, and so it begins…" He dutifully started toward the bedroom, glancing into the guest room on his way. "What's with the roll-away? You're not sleeping with me?"

"Nope…if I touch you wrong in the middle of the night, it would be a very bad situation," she explained. "So I've moved into your guest room until you've recovered."

He was visibly moved. "You weren't kidding… You've really moved in to take care of me?" No one had ever genuinely taken such an active part in his life before. Nor, to be fair, had he allowed them to do so. He had kept each wife at a comfortable distance, except for sex and life's basics. Once he'd established they couldn't equal his intellect – and of course they couldn't, because he'd subconsciously chosen beauty over brains – he had started to isolate himself emotionally from each one. Sarah was different and he was still getting used to it all. Sometimes, unconditional love was almost overwhelming.

"No kidding. I'm in this for the duration, John," she replied. "You mean so much to me, it's the least I could do." She pulled her glasses down on her nose, imitating one of the older nurses at Mercy General. "And now, off to bed with you."

"Help me get undressed?" he asked, a wicked grin on his face.

"Sure will… Give me a sec, though, so I can bring a glass of water and your pills." She got a Tylenol #3, a Keflex and a glass of water and carried them back to John. "You may want to wait until the painkiller kicks in, before I help you get undressed," she ventured. "Depends on your range of motion and how high you can lift your left arm."

"I'll grit my teeth and do whatever I need to, as long as I can get into my pajamas."

"Instead of your scrubs, I got you some that button. Makes it easier with your shoulder like it is." She got up and brought over the plaid top and bottoms. He looked them over approvingly. Cotton…soft from already having been washed a few times. "These okay?"

"Very nice," he said. "Is there anything you haven't thought of?" he asked, teasing her.

"How to clone myself, so I can be with you _and_ at the sixteenth. I saw Cragen yesterday and he looked like hell." She was helping John get changed as he tried hard not to let on how much pain he was in. "After I get you settled, I'm going in for a couple hours or so."

"Do you really have to go so soon?" He wanted to sink back into the pillows and hear her read to him, until the pain pill put him to sleep.

"I can hang out here for awhile," she relented. "After you fall asleep, I'll call Elliot and have him take me in. Then, I'll be back in time to fix us some dinner."

He looked at her a long moment. "Do you have any idea how much I appreciate you?"

"Yes," she answered simply. "I do." With that, she helped him get comfortable with the pillows she'd brought from her place, and then kissed him deeply. "Anything you need right now?"

"The day's headlines, or maybe the financial news." She reached for the remote, since she'd moved a TV into his room earlier in the week, with Fin's help. "No, not that… I was hoping you'd read to me," he said, taking off his glasses and handing them to her to place on the nightstand.

"My pleasure." She smiled, spread out the Wall Street Journal, chose an article and started to read. She read to him until his eyes closed and he drifted into painless sleep. She refolded the paper, placed it within his reach, turned the light down to its lowest setting and got up. He didn't move; he was too deeply asleep. She made sure his cell phone was within easy reach.

She went into the kitchen and called Elliot, before taking her purse and locking the door behind her. She'd spend as much time as possible at the precinct, then return to him as soon as could be managed.

"How's John doing?" Elliot asked, as Sarah got into the car. He noticed she was wearing a powder blue polo shirt and blue jeans, with athletic shoes. She wasn't nearly so hung up on dress code, since leaving the Bureau. Stabler found it refreshing she was wearing jeans – it broke her "Queen of Quantico" image that Tutuola razzed her about. "He came home today, right?"

"He did. He's doing about as well as can be expected," she explained. "I popped his pills down him, then stuck around until he passed out. I wanted to come help out at the house, since I know how hard you're all working on this case."

"We appreciate the help," he said, genuinely grateful. "Especially since I know you'd rather stay and keep an eye on Munch."

"Yeah," she admitted, "I would, but it's a question of dividing my time as equally as possible. I can't abandon you and everyone else, plus there's not much I can do when John's sleeping. He'll be sleeping a lot for the first few days, which frees me to type and file and do whatever I can for the squad."

"Can you catch me up on D-D5's, if I promise not to nit-pick you to death?" he asked, a grin on his face.

"Yeah, I think that could happen," she said, smiling. "Best of all, I can even make you some decent coffee."

"Oh, hey, that alone makes it worth your coming in," he chided. "But can you make it at least a little sludgy? We almost miss John's funky chunky brew – we could all use the extra kick of caffeine."

"Let's see if I remember how he does it… I think he uses one cup of water to one can of coffee." She tried to keep a straight face, but was too overjoyed at the thought of being useful again. "Sound about right?"

"You know, I think you've got it," Elliot said, pulling into a parking space reserved for unmarked patrol cars. "Now that you're here, there's hope for us all." He laughed, got out of the car and went to her side to open the door. "Need a hand?" he offered.

"I'm good," she assured him, getting out easily. "But no fair making fun of what I look like while I type – or you'll be doing your own D-D5s," she teased.

"Lady, you got yourself a deal." They walked in together, both hoping it would buoy the spirits of the squad and their Captain, to see at least one familiar face back in action again.

Sarah had been right, John had spent the first three days catching up on his sleep. She was glad, because he'd fall into a deep, healing sleep and she was able to go in and get some work done without too much guilt.

Each day, before and after she left him for a few hours, she was able to get a decent meal into him and they'd spend time in intellectual discussion, both taking point and counter-point, or playing devil's advocate to the day's news articles.

Munch was in paradise; Sarah was open, direct and fearless in her well-thought-out opinions, and he loved debating with her. It was more enjoyable than with his ex-wives and girlfriends, because she could take either role – pro or con – and argue it convincingly. He learned over time that their political views were amazingly close, they shared the same conspiracy theories and they both distrusted "Big Brother" with almost equal acrimony.

Best of all, he felt deeply cared for as she took care of him. No matter what he wanted or needed, she found a way to accommodate him, even managing to help him take a hot bath as she carefully washed his hair. She kept him comfortable, got him to every one of his doctor appointments, facilitated his at-home physical therapy – and all of this took place with her arm still unfortunately in its bright blue cast.

Finally, the day came when he came out of the orthopedic surgeon's office and asked, "Can I have the car keys?"

"You're cleared to drive?" she asked, hopeful. "When do you return to work?" Zelman knew that one clearance would lead to the other, and Munch had been eager to get back to work as soon as he could.

"First thing Monday morning," he said happily. "Free at last!"

As much as he loved being taken care of, it was time for him to go back to being her – or Fin's – partner. Fin's knee had healed and he was also finished with his physical therapy, so Cragen would finally have his family back…intact.

She tossed him the keys. "Here you go, Feel like celebrating?"

"Yes. Yes, I do," he admitted. "Brie and champagne at my place?"

"You're on." She smiled, glad she no longer needed to split her time, but also longing to keep things as they were. They had spent so much time together, it would be odd to be partnered with someone else while Munch and Fin resumed their partnership – or be in an L-car, solo – gathering information on her own for each case. Munch trusted Cragen to find the right place for her in SVU, so neither of them worried about their professional lives.

On the flip side, their coworkers had kept their secrets well, while they lived together at John's. Once more, Munch and Zelman could spend their nights at each other's apartments, keeping their personal life theirs and theirs alone for the most part.

It was all good. Or, as Fin Tutuola would say, "It's cool."

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Cold Brews 

John Munch was feeling better than he had in a long time; his wounds from the VICAP mission having healed almost completely, his relationship with Sarah thus far unchanged by their working together, and things seemed a lot less tense at the 16th Precinct. Life was good. He even felt all right about meeting Danny Stranahan for a beer or two.

The U.S. Marshal had called him earlier in the day and reiterated that they should have a couple cold ones at the local cop bar, before Danny had to fly back to his home office in Miami tomorrow afternoon. Munch had given him the address and wondered if he'd show up with or without the younger Stranahan tagging along. He hoped it would just be the two of them, so Danny could talk freely about Sarah. Munch's intuition warned him she'd eventually become the topic of conversation, once they were through with the cops' version of shop talk. _If_ they got that far first.

John got there early, sat down at a small two-top and checked his cell phone for the time. It was almost six p.m. and Stranahan walked into the dim bar right on time. He caught John's signal and came over to the table; Munch stood and the men shook hands warmly. "Good to see you again, Dan."

"Good to see you, too, John," he said as they sat down at the table, a waitress on her way to take their order.

"Gentlemen, what would you like to drink this evening?" she asked.

"Corona with lime for me and an order of the beer-battered mushrooms, too, please," Danny said.

"I'll take a Sam Adams, please," John said, "and an order of chicken strips."

"You got it," she said, walking off to get their drinks.

"Looks like you made a good recovery from the shooting," Stranahan ventured. "You had us all worried for a while there." _Especially Sarah, who was a silent wreck when she called me, _he wanted to add, but thought better of it.

"I'm fine," he admitted. "Nothing a little time off and home cooking couldn't take care of. I'll probably give it a week and start working more on that side with my Glock," he added. "But we both know we didn't come here to compare war wounds…" He tried to keep his tone amicable, because he was starting to genuinely hit it off with Danny, but wondered if he kept it light enough.

The waitress brought their drinks and the men fidgeted a bit in awkward silence. Stranahan squeezed lime into his Corona, while Munch poured his beer into a tall glass.

"Heard I got her into major shit with Cragen, when I arranged for heavier body armor and blades for the squad," Danny said, regretfully. "I never meant for that to happen – I just wanted everyone to be as safe as possible."

"Cragen figured as much," Munch explained. "It wasn't like she was going to get a rip for it or anything. I think he was simply trying to figure out if she was playing both sides of the fence. Or, to get more to the point, if she was playing both of _us_. Found out later that she'd been very blunt with him about the two of you, before the VICAP meet and greet. Between us, I can tell you he was actually relieved we had access to heavier vests and SEAL-level blades. He couldn't have requisitioned what you'd sent to her – certainly not that fast."

"'Playing both of us'? She's not like that; not Sarah," Stranahan asserted. "She's a one-man woman."

"Exactly," Munch agreed. "But just for a moment there, Cragen wondered _which_ one." He forced a smile.

"I never had to worry about her straying and I hope she realized it was mutual."

"She did," John assured him. "She said it was a very good five years." He knew it must have been or she wouldn't have stayed in the relationship as long as she had. He wasn't lying _per se_, he was simply drawing his own conclusion and passing along what he had read between the lines.

"Look…John…" Stranahan picked at the mushroom that had been placed in front of him. "She's…always been her own person, I guess you could say?"

"You have a marvelous penchant for both understatement and diplomacy," John replied, starting to relax at last. "What you mean is, the two of you had a lot of differences and there wasn't a bridge far enough for the chasm. Something like that song by Sting – 'Fortress Around Your Heart.' She said you shared an interest in Sting's music," he explained.

"She told you about the major issues, I'm presuming?" he asked. "About the topic of kids and that we melded almost completely…but not quite all the way?"

"She told me you were – and continue to be – one hell of a great mentor and an extremely dear friend," Munch replied. "And I could tell she had more than a few regrets. God help the man who isn't willing to accept you as a friend, too, because he'll never get far with Sarah." He forked a piece of chicken strip into honey mustard dressing and popped it into his mouth.

"Now who's being diplomatic?" Danny asked with a grin. He had a couple mushrooms then took a long pull of the cold Corona. "I just don't want the _two_ of you to have any regrets, John. I know she's happy now; she deserves all the happiness she can get." He looked down at the tabletop, the labels of beers lacquered beneath its glass-topped surface. "Meaning, all the happiness she can get with _you_."

"Hey, Dan," John began earnestly, "believe me, I didn't come here to face-off with you over Sarah. All I came for was to grab a couple of beers and to thank you for taking the shot when you needed to."

"Don't think twice about it… I realize that," he replied, "but it needed to be said. That's one thing about Sarah and me, and you should keep it in mind – she won't settle for pulled punches. Always be straight with her. The mistake I made was in not doing that; not following through, then not telling her why."

They ate for a few minutes in silence, before their food grew cold. Finally, Munch put his fork down and asked, "What _was_ the problem? You two seemed really good for each other. Why couldn't you have worked it all out?"

"I couldn't giver her what she wanted, and vice-versa," he admitted. "I wanted kids and she wanted a career. She's a great cop, but I wanted her home – to keep her safe. To her, 'safe' meant keeping her in a cage or on a shelf. Heard from a friend she felt like my trophy, totally shelved. Sarah won't be contained and she won't settle for less than she deserves, even though she hates to ask for anything from anyone, if you know what I mean." He popped the last mushroom in his mouth and added, "Does that make sense to you?"

"It does," John answered. "She refused to be your trophy, but she still has a deep place in her heart for you," he said. "She still loves you, in a very particular way, if that makes sense to you."

"Yeah, it does. No matter how far we're apart or how long we go without speaking with each other, we somehow still have each other's back," he said softly. "It wasn't like that with my wife or any of my other…girlfriends. Even though I never referred to Sarah as my girlfriend, because she was so much more than that." He looked John Munch square in the face, met his eyes and said, "Now she's yours. It's as simple as that – and I'm genuinely happy for you both."

"Thank you, Dan," he said amiably. "I promise not to screw it all up, if you promise to still be her friend – and mine – no matter what."

"Done deal," he agreed. "I can say that because I know you'd never hurt her."

"No, I never would – at least not without bringing the entire U.S. Marshals' Service down on my sorry ass."

They shared a laugh, got the waitress to bring them each another beer and settled into some serious cop shop talk for another hour and a half, until Stranahan realized he was late for dinner with his son, Jack.

"John, you'll never get a ring on her finger, but if you do – "

"Hey, Dan, you'd be the first to know. You'd get a call to come be my best man."

"Right now, you're _her_ best man." They stood, Munch snagged the check much to Stranahan's protests, but he flipped out a fifty-dollar bill to settle a debt. "This is for the flowers. I owed you." They shook hands once more. "You saved her life. Keep each other safe, okay?"

"Will do," John said. "She wanted me to give you this. I didn't even steam it open or anything, he added, grinning, "but I promised her I'd deliver it to you personally." It was a card in a teal envelope – Danny's favorite color.

"I'll open it now, since curiosity is killing both of us," he said. The card was a close-up of a lion, majestic and roaring. The inscription inside was simple, but Munch could tell it hit Stranahan like an arrow through his heart. It said, _'Thanks again for taking the shot when you needed to. Like John, you've saved my life and been my guardian angel again and again. Stay safe… You're always with me, as I am with you.'_ A small heart and her signature were beneath what she'd written.

Danny swallowed hard. "Thanks for delivering this, John. Will you tell her something for me?"

"Sure…anything," he replied.

"Tell her that yes, she _is_ always with me, too…and that the two of you are to keep each other safe."

"I'll do that," Munch said softly.

Knowing that, Stranahan turned and walked out through the nearest exit, the card held close.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: November Rain 

It was a Saturday so cold, everyone could see their breath despite the light drizzle. Sarah stood in front of the florists' shop and put her hand on the door, hesitating a moment. She took a deep breath.

"Are you really ready for this?" John asked softly, his arm around her shoulders.

She thought about it for a few moments and then whispered, "Yes." Opening the door, she saw the red roses and white ones wrapped and waiting. She got out a credit card and paid for them without much comment, unable to trade forced pleasantries with the shop's owners. They knew why she had come. They didn't force conversation, either, for which Munch was grateful.

"Thank you," she said quietly, once she'd signed for the bouquets.

John held the car door for her and she got in, then carefully latched her seatbelt so as not to damage the precious cargo. "You know the place, right?"

"I do." Before checking traffic and pulling out, he kissed her cheek. "We'll get through this together. I promise."

_I promise._ She thought back to how they met and realized he'd kept every promise he'd ever made. No other man had cared so much. No other man had been strong enough to _consistently_ love such a strong woman.

John Munch went into the small trailer, flashed his badge and grabbed two hard hats. "We're here," he said simply.

"Thanks for letting me know. I'll sound off now, so work can stop before she's ready," the foreman said.

"We appreciate that. We'll try not to be too long." He put on his hard hat. "I'll signal when we're finished, to give you the all-clear."

"Thanks. The others are here, I think. They're ready and waiting."

Sarah donned the hard hat John offered and gave him one of the bouquets to hold. They saw Cragen and the others, all in dress blue uniforms as they were, all with a new medals of commendation for the successful VICAP mission, from both the NYPD and FBI, in addition to their individual pins and medals from situations past.

Munch and Zelman climbed up to where they were, everyone in hard hats on a slab above what had become known as 'the abyss.' Zelman stared into it for a long moment and then began.

"I want to thank you all for giving up part of your Saturday morning for this," she said. "Today," she began, allowing her tears to flow freely, "we are here to mark the lives of not just 29 FBI agents, but 29 souls who each in their own way had a profound effect on my life. They are not part of my past; instead, they co-exist with my future and help make me who I am."

She looked skyward at the clouds, and then pulled a single red rose out of one of the bouquets. Elliot could see the tears streaming down Olivia's face and he held her close. Workers, having heard the whistle, looked up, saw what was about to happen and removed their hard hats, holding them over their hearts. Fin let a single tear slip, as had Cragen. George Huang, dressed in a black suit, was wearing sunglasses and John's own lenses had gone dark in the ultraviolet light.

"For being my friend, my mentor and my boss, Steve DiMarco, I bless your name. May you truly rest in peace," Sarah said, tossing the red rose into the abyss.

Twenty-eight more times, she invoked a name, a blessing, a brief statement and gave tribute with a perfect red rose.

"For your bravery, your selflessness and all that you are to New York and to those you gave comfort to, I dedicate this rose to those of you in the NYPD, the Port Authority and the brotherhood and sisterhood of firefighters, as well as every soul who rescued someone or tried to give solace in the midst of misery. Without many of you, I would not be standing here today." She wept openly, as another red rose found its mark at the very center of what had been the first Tower to fall.

Sarah's voice wavered, but carried far. John watched as grown men also bowed their heads and wept. He cried silently at her side. Even George Huang wept quietly, his first opportunity to express his own grief.

"For all of those who were innocent victims here and on the other jets, for their families, friends and all those who cared about them…this final red rose is for each of you, that you will gain the strength and insight to continue on," Zelman said, her voice wavering.

"I hope those of you who are in the afterlife of your faith are happy and that you have touched the face of God to wipe away His tears. To those who survive, please know we feel your pain now and always shall." She let the rose slip from her fingers into the abyss and sobbed, Munch's arms steadying her. "We will never, **_ever_** forget you."

"And now, for all of you…" she began, her voice gaining strength. "I give to each of you a white rose, in love and friendship to always remember the past and to celebrate our future as the family I hold in my heart, just as deeply as my family of missing compatriots."

She pulled two white roses from the second bouquet and gave one to Olivia and one to Elliot. "I think of both of you as two halves of a whole, so I give you these together. May you always have each other's back, and each other's love, no matter what the situation."

Elliot's jaw clenched as he struggled to rein in his emotions; he longed to let go, to sob relentlessly like a small child, but couldn't allow himself the luxury as Liv cried unabashedly at his side.

"Don, this is for believing in me and taking me into your family," she said, "even though, in some ways, you had to sell your soul to do so. You renewed my sense of purpose. I'll do my best to always make sure you made the best decision for your team."

"Thank you, Sarah," he choked out, "it was worth it, believe me," he added, kissing her cheek.

"Odafin," I give this rose to you, for not only always covering my back but also the back of someone very dear to me. Fin, you are -- and always will be -- wise beyond your years." She sobbed softly again as she saw the tears track down his dark cheeks.

"George," she continued, "this is for you. For reincarnating me from 'damaged goods'

into someone I can live with…myself." He wrapped his hands around hers as he took the rose. "Thank you." He nodded, for once unable to speak.

She took the final white rose and gave it to Munch. "John, I give this to you in deepest gratitude, for saving my life and giving me a reason to live again. Without you, I would have been another statistic in a body bag, but with you I feel more alive than words will ever describe. Here's to a partnership unlike any other."

He had, without her knowledge, ordered an extra rose, carefully hidden in the midst of the others and now in full view – a creamy peach colored rose with a crimson edge on each delicate petal. "And this," John said softly, "I give to _you_, for bringing a truthful kind of love into my life, for always having my back, and for being my beloved." _There. It was out._ _On his terms._ He'd said it and felt absolutely no regrets.

He clasped both her hands in his, the roses joined as well. "As written in the Song of Solomon," he whispered in her ear, "'I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine,'" He locked his gaze with hers and hugged her tightly. "Welcome home, Sarah. _Welcome home."_ They held each other for what felt like an eternity, in mere seconds.

Munch looked through the very top of his lenses and saw Elliot and Olivia in a similar embrace. The men's eyes locked for a brief instant and they realized they shared so much more than a badge, a gun and a job. No words were needed; they knew they were where they both belonged and with whom they belonged.

Cragen took a sharp intake of breath, the moment not lost on him. _God, how he missed his wife_ – time didn't heal all wounds, but he too hoped she was in a happier place and waiting for him there. For once, he didn't long for the numbness of alcohol, but his heart ached for the love of his wife still temporarily gone from him.

Don felt Sarah reach out one of her hands toward his and he took it, their grasp firm and warm. So few people understood how he felt and how desperately he missed his wife. After a previous failed marriage, and lengthy years single and searching, Cragen had found his soul mate. When the Fly Florida airliner had gone down, the tragedy had not merely killed her and stolen her from his muscular arms -- a part of him had died that day in the Everglades, too. Sarah felt his pain and he felt hers, but they would somehow all make it through. _Together._

Slowly, they returned to the present for one final act of love and respect.

Huang, the detectives and their captain each took a petal from their roses and dropped them into the abyss. The men below put their hard hats back on, some made the sign of the cross, others wiped their eyes or faces. Some sat and sobbed. They all watched as one, as the petals floated to settle upon the debris below. Once the last petal settled into the red roses, Munch signaled the foreman; the recovery workers slowly, laboriously returned to their duties.

Sun broke through the clouds and the November rain had dissipated at some point during the proceedings. The sun felt warm, their collective breath was no longer visible in the New York air. Individually, they found themselves looking toward the sky, its gray having given way to a cerulean blue, scattered with wispy clouds.

The simple ceremony provided a sense of closure, of closeness now lost to words among Huang, the detectives and captain of the 16th Precinct, but most importantly it was the phoenix of a new beginning.

**_Author's Comments: _**

_The name(s) of the law enforcement officials I have used have been changed, to protect their identities; this includes the names of cities and municipalities in order that the location(s) of their headquarters can't compromise intelligence or their lives. 'Cop shop talk' has been altered ever so slightly for that reason, too, because law enforcement has its own code that should, in the author's opinion, never be entirely broken for the sake of fanfic._

_ In case anyone was wondering, yes I'm an EMT (trained in emergency medical rescue) and have been known to shoot a Glock 35 on the firing line, just as accurately as Sarah Zelman. The joke is that my favorite perfume is the scent of gunpowder. wink _

_My sister is a Registered Nurse and if you ever tasted her Chicken Paprikas, you'd go crazy with culinary glee. (If you want the recipe, it's basically included in this tale, just follow the steps in the order written.) _

_Credit must be given for the excerpted lyrics to "November Rain," written by W. Axl Rose, Jeffrey Isbell, Saul "Slash" Hudson and Michael "Duff" McKagan of the group "Guns & Roses." With the lyrics credit, it should also be noted that song was based on the short story "Missing You," by Del James. The words seemed right and anyone who's ever seen Slash play knows why I'm into this song. He's an amazing, intelligent gentleman, regardless of what you may have heard or seen. Trust me on this._

_'Go with what you know,' my high school teacher said – thanks for the advice, Sylvia. It stood me in good stead as a professional writer, for which I will always be grateful. And now, if only I could find you to thank you personally; but you have moved and changed your name, making even my most diligent skip-tracing abilities irrelevant. Wherever you are, know you have made a profound difference in people's lives._

_Thank you, Dear Reader, for letting me walk through your world and share my version of it with you. I hope you've enjoyed the trip. If you've enjoyed the journey, please let me know. _


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